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ARTHUR HUNT GHUTE 




Class 

Book 

Copyright }1^_ 



Ci)Ffl«GHT DEPOSm 



THE REAL FRONT 



THE 

REAL FRONT 



BY 

ARTHUR HUNT CHUTE 

LATE FIRST CANADIAN DIVISION 




HARPER eff BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 



-^ 



6,"° 







6* 



APR 2 1913 

The Real Frost 

Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers 

Printed in the United States of America 

Published March, 1918 



v8 



i 
i 

©CI.A492848 



TO 

the memory of my friend 
Lieutenant John L. Godwin. C.F.A. 
who sleeps on the field of honor 



CONTENTS 

CHAP. PAGE 

Introduction ix 

I. The Making of the First Canadians . 1 

II. From the Base to the Firing-line . . 24 

III. With the Roaring Guns 39 

IV. Angels of Death 65 

V. The Real Front 77 

VI. On Our Street of Adventure .... 95 

VII. The End of a Bitter Day 110 

VIII. The Faith of a Soldier 124 

IX. My Finest Moment in France .... 136 

X. "The Day of Reckoning" 145 

XI. Through Death Valley by Daylight . 171 

XII. The Red Cross Nurse 203 

XIII. The Stuff that Makes a Soldier . . . 216 

XIV. New World Troops in an Old World War 233 

XV. Serving Our Soldiers 256 

XVI. A Cradle of Our Victories 269 

XVII. How Sleep the Brave 278 

XVIII. *'Vers la Gloire" 298 



INTRODUCTION 

ALL those wHo have come under the star- 
^ shells of the firing-line, have touched the 
point where life is epic. Where the brazier 
fires burn at night along the shivering trenches 
existence may be bare of comfort, but it rings 
with loud adventure. 

Unto our children's children, and beyond, the 
grayest lives lived in those trenches shall shine 
forth with colors of romance. It is well to read 
history in an arm-chair, but it is far better to 
make history under the blue. It was grand to 
live in the spacious days of good Queen Bess. 
But we need envy no past age, who have helped 
to make the history of this present. 

Beyond the objective happenings, the author 
has tried to bring home some of those subjective 
facts, that will remain, when mere events have 
been forgotten. 

The Real Front is a place where one is always 
face to face with the profundities of life. I was 
talking with a gray-bearded gentleman the other 
day and, speaking of a certain event, I said, 
"Of course, sir, only old men like yourself and I 
can appreciate such things/' 



INTRODUCTION 

He looked at me in a quizzical manner, and 
laughingly exclaimed, ''^\Tiat do you mean, my 
boy?" 

"I mean," I answered, "that life is not meas- 
ured by years, but by experiences, and in that 
sense I am your peer in age, for I have been on 
the Real Front; I have dwelt for months in the 
Temple of the Angels of Death." 

My memories of France are like a vast kalei- 
doscope of pictures. In choosing the scenes 
which I have thrown again uix)n the screen I have 
sought for those that best set forth the Real 
Front, which is still so dimly apprehended by the 
folks at home. 

Out of all the tragedy and sorrow of the 
trenches, the triumph of the soldierly spirit is 
the thing that rises, phoenix-like, from the ashes 
of this war. This triumph of the soldierly spirit 
is the greatest fact for me in all this conflict. 
There flashes before me a picture from Flanders, 
emblematic of the triumph of this spirit. 

I am in Poperinghe behind the salient of Ypres. 
I am at dinner in an Esiaminet when down the 
road comes the shrill voice of the fife and drum. 
Every one springs to the window. Soldiers and 
ci^-ilians are all rushing for a glimpse as a regiment 
goes marching by. Months in France cannot 
dim the glory of this spectacle. Only those who 
have been there can fully appreciate such a sight. 

A battalion of the Northumberland Fusileers 



INTRODUCTION 

is marching up from rest billets to do their stunt 
in the trenches. At the head of the column on 
his spirited charger is the colonel of the regiment. 
Behind the colonel marches a goat, the battalion 
mascot, led by the colonel's batman. Behind, 
at respective distances, come the companies, each 
led by its captain. Dogs without number follow 
faithfully at the heels of their chosen masters. 
Many of these dogs were possessed of happy homes, 
far iDehind the lines, but they fell in with Tommy, 
instinctively loved him, and forsook all to follow 
the hard fortunes of the Northumberlands. 

Lewis machine-guns go by on hand-trucks. 
The Maxim guns follow with horses and limbers 
and regimental transport. At the end of the line 
are the traveling-kitchens, smoking and steam- 
ing, while the cooks prepare a meal to the tramp 
of the marching men. 

The Tommies, as usual, are in gay humor, 
singing with the band, laughing at one another, 
flinging gibes to the crowd and kisses to madame 
and the two pretty Belgian girls in the Estaminet. 
Only here and there a grave young subaltern 
or the earnest-faced captain at the head of the 
last company call to mind the fact that many of 
these men will not come back. 

Around the corner rattles the last transport, 
followed by the last attending dog. The fife and 
drums grow dim, and die away. 

I was in Poperinghe again when that same gay 



INTRODUCTION 

battalion of Northumberlands came marching 
out. The fife and drums had come to play 
them back. The colonel of the gray and master- 
ful face was gone. The company commander 
who marched behind him was gone. The com- 
pany was a tattered remnant, led by a one-star 
subaltern. The other companies were also in 
tatters. I looked for the serious-faced young 
captain of the last company, but he was gone. 
Billy, the battalion mascot, was in the rear, and 
it was not the colonel's batman that led him. 

Last week I saw that battalion pass, a thousand 
strong. Now, scarce two hundred were return- 
ing. But, unkempt, war-worn, and tattered as 
this remnant was, its spirit was unbroken. The 
band struck up the latest hit and every marching 
man joined merrily in the chorus. That was but 
an expression of the soldierly spirit which over 
every tragedy remained unconquered. 

Out of the mud and mire of Flanders, out of 
the winter's cold and rain, out of shell-swept 
trenches, out of holes in the ground where men 
live amidst blood and mire, where corpses are 
thickly strewn, out of all this woe and hardship 
comes the voice of Tommy, singing : 

"Are we downhearted? No!" 

This is the triumph of the soldierly spirit which 
is the goal of all America's new armies. 

Arthur Hunt Chute. 

January, 1918. 



THE REAL FRONT 



THE REAL FRONT 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

"np HERE she goes, Alf!" and with that ex- 

-*■ clamation from a Garrison gunner the 

peaceful Somme nightfall was rudely broken. A 

moment before the white chalk rim of the horizon 

was serene with the pink of twilight, and the 

evening star was beginning to twinkle on a world 

of stealing shadows; then with the roar of a giant 

whiplash a sixty-pounder broke the stillness, 

and like one voice a thousand guns burst forth. 

Down the long black valley the eternal lightnings 

leaped, and an endless ribbon of thunder rolled 

up from the guns. 

I reined in my horse for a moment beside a 

group of gunners to watch the sky-line. At last 

the "big push" had begun. 

"Do you see them chaps, Alf.^^" burst out the 

speaker of a moment before. "Them's the 
I 1 



THE REAL FRONT 

First Canoidians, the boys wlio 'eld the line at 
Ypres last year. They're one of the f oinest fight- 
ing divisions on the front, they're going over the 
top at the dawn, and may Gawd 'dp Fritz!" 

These words from the unknown gunner stirred 
a warm pride within my breast, for I, too, was 
one of the First Canadians, and with a thrill I 
gazed upon the road, along which, like a mighty 
torrent, the regiments w^e moving iq> for the 
attack at the dawn. 

"Who are you.^" I inquired of the passing 



"The Seventh Batt;.:::" :::- British Colum- 
bia," came back the reply . 

The kings of No Man's Land, and the pioneers 
of raii:::^. I mused. 

A few moments later I inquired again. '' ' We're 
the Tenth Battalion, the White Ghurkas,*' an- 
swered a lusty voice. 

Yes. Fritz knows your name and knows it well, 
I thought. 

Each one of these names of the old First are 
names to conjure with on the British front to-day, 
and above the names of the regiments themselves. 
is the gathered ^ory of the division to which 
they belong, the First Canadiaos. 

^^liat's in a name? scnne one has asked. 
Everything. There is no finer example of the 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

potency of a name than that of the First Cana- 
dians. A short time ago that name was unknown 
in British mihtary annals. To-day it thrills with 
the love of strong men and the pride of heroes. 
It has become for our young Dominion a touch- 
stone of loyalty, of valor, and of sacrifice. 

Blood and iron, and fire and storm, were the 
components of the First Canadians. There were 
the swashbucklers, the Bismarckian apostles of 
war, old soldiers who lived in hopes of future 
battles, and there were also the irresistibles, 
young spirit -brothers of Lord Clive, who had 
been kicked out of the Old Country for the sake 
of the peace at home, boys who burst the con- 
fines of the parish and the kirk and scattered to 
the four winds of wide heaven. Blood and iron, 
and fire and storm, were the components of the 
First Canadians, elements of greatest promise 
and of gravest peril. None have written of the 
making of this force, but it is a story that richly 
deserves to be told, and as one of the camaraderie 
of old I have attempted the task. 

On the 20th of August, 1914, I stood on the 
platform of a country railroad station in Nova 
Scotia. Suddenly the station-master announced, 
"Here comes yoiu* troop-train," and around the 
curve and down the track came a far-shining 
headlight, 

3 



THE REAL FRONT 

In juiswer to the Ted list's signal to stop the 

train began to slow down, amidst a loer ol jko- 

testing steam. As the cars glided by I noticed 

that each bore a huge insoqitian. On <Hie, 

throng the moving Unr, I read, ''To hdl with 

the Kaiser." The nest car idiich came to a 

zz. bote the inscriqptiQn, *'C<donist sleeper 

''That's the car for me," I said to 

r'^^ my kit-bag on the fJatfoarm, 

Just as I did so the docv burst 

rrd-headed Scotchman from 

C^ Z r-on exdaimed, "HdBo, Bof Lnme- 

i: : ziphasise the warmth ol his wdcome;, 

_r by the nape of the nedk, and sent 

ii a long car foil ol nproarioos 

* egrees ol intoxicatian. 

i '/: vdkres, engaged in aing- 

r r^" IHnecqHtate ai^iear- 

?i: of givmg' me the 

.. ^ :. ''\ :r. ::_. ::l: ;; " " I wj>s 

- - _ : -^r r 7_ -:"'s boot 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

" 'Ere, 'ere! This won't 'arf do!" exclaimed a 
slirill - voiced cockney sergeant, of the Army 
Service corps, raising his diminutive body upon 
a seat to emphasize his authority. For one mo- 
ment he stood erect, laying down the law from 
the seats of the mighty, then his dignity suddenly 
sputtered out and an Irishman rushed upon him, 
yelling: 

*'Come to me, my darlint, we'll 'ere, 'ere ye." 

The next moment, howling and kicking, he 
made the most undignified passage of all down 
the long aisle. At the end he still yapped de- 
fiance. 

"The gineral ain't finished his trip," some one 
announced. "He's got a return ticket." And 
with that the hapless cockney was started back, 
at the end of which his wind was completely 
knocked out, and, dead to the world, he was 
dumped into a berth. 

Pandemonium was at its height when the door 
of the car burst open and a grizzled old High- 
lander, who proved to be the colonel, stood glar- 
ing at the wild men. A deathless silence ensued. 
The fiery and leonine Maclsaac took on the ap- 
pearance of a wilted sunflower. For a short 
space the air cracked as the colonel laid down the 
law, and then he departed as suddenly as he had 
come. 

5 



THE REAL FRONT 

A profound silence reigned for some time, and 
when mouth-organs and vocaKsts began to make 
the car melodious once more, one was conscious 
of a sober restraint. The colonel's presence, 
though unseen, was felt. That grizzled old war- 
rior had merely impinged his personality upon 
this bear garden, and it had been transformed 
into the atmosphere of a Sabbath-school. 

As the train roared on through the night the 
spirit of sleep began to steal over the car. Finally 
all seemed to be wrapped in slumber except my- 
self and the little cockney sergeant, who had come 
to and was moaning as though in pain. 

I approached him and inquired if I could do 
anything to put him at ease. 

"Aw, it ain't the rough 'andling that's 
a-botherin' o' me, but oh, my Gawd, I was 
a-wonderin' 'ow I'd ever make sodjers out o' this 
mob from 'ell. It fair makes me groan, it does, 
to think o' what's ahead. I tell ye I've 'ad the 
'andlin' o' rough stuff in me day. I've 'ammered 
the fear o' dooty into toughs from Mile End 
Road, and I've seen the sweepin's o' 'ell made 
into an harmy, and where there is 'ope I sees it, 
but Gawd bli' me, there's no 'ope for these 
Canoidians. Ye cawn't make an harmy out o' 
them. No, sez I, it cawn't be done." 

I felt the cogency of the cockney's argument. 

6 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

Here was a problem indeed, and for a long time 
I pondered the question, What kind of soldiers 
would these incorrigibles make? They might 
serve well in an irregular war, but ahead of us 
was scientific fighting. Could we produce an 
army adequate to such exacting tests? The 
grizzled old colonel at least cast a ray of light 
on the gloom. With masters of men like that 
we could do anything. 

Next day the cockney sergeant had another 
grim reminder of a task beyond his power. 
The troop-train had stopped for a time in a 
French-Canadian town famous for its ardent 
intoxicant, known as "Whisky Blanc." The 
sergeant had stationed sentries at the doors of 
the car with strict orders to let no one out. 
Suddenly Red Maclsaac confronted him. The 
cockney attempted to block the passage, but the 
big Cape-Bretoner whisked him away like a fly, 
exclaiming: "Aw, git out o' me way, will ye? 
Ye give me a pain." 

At the same time that Red and his boon com- 
panions were leaving by the door I noticed the 
clinking spurs of two Annapolis County light 
cavalrymen momentarily in midair as their own- 
ers dived through the window. The sergeant 
was quick in sending guards upon the trail and 
after a short time red-coated guards and guarded 



THE REAL FRONT 

alike came reeling back in various degrees of 
intoxication, singing at the top of their voices, 
"Love me and the world is mine." 

*'If it weren't for auld Colonel Donald Mac- 
Kenzie MacTavish in there," said a somber- 
\asaged Cape-Bretoner, "this menagerie would 
neffer arrive whateffer. But the auld boy would 
deliver the goods, neffer ye fear." 

Thanks to the iron hand of Colonel MacTavish, 
the Nova Scotia contingent arrived, the New 
Brunswick contingent was arriving at the same 
time, and as the two mobs jSowed into each other 
the uproar and spontaneous rivalry engendered 
reminded one of a Harvard-Yale football game. 
Whatever the battles of the future might be, a 
dingdong scrap between Canada's two pro\^nces 
by the sea was imminent. Indeed, several 
couples were already stepping it out for a 
bonnie fight when they were suddenly paralyzed 
by the awful voice of MacTavish. Incorrigible 
spirits might be here, but with them was their 
master. 

The place appointed for the gathering of the 
First Canadians was a beautiful plain under the 
shadow of the grim Laurent ian Mountains. 
Here, about an hour's distance by train from 
the historic gateway of Quebec, railway sidings 
had been built, and along that railway and over 

8 



THE MAKING OF THE FffiST CANADIANS 

the sidings, like a ceaseless river, the troops of 
Canada's new army flowed in streams. 

We were among the first to arrive, and found 
ourselves in a camp of only a few thousand, but 
day by day for the rest of the week the troops 
kept pouring in. Each day the white tents 
marched farther across the plain, and each night 
I watched the myriad lights of a great city 
twinkling farther and farther down into the long 
darkness of the valley. 

At length thirty-three thousand men were 
gathered from the four winds of Canada. It 
was a moving sight to stand by the headquarters 
flagstaff by night, to look out upon the sea of 
camp-fires and far-shining lights; to hear the 
hum of its restless life and to breathe the air of 
vast adventure. 

Val Cartier Camp in its early days reminded 
one of the gold cities of the West, of 'Frisco in 
'49, or of Dawson City in '98. Here was the same 
spontaneous and sudden springing up, and here 
was the same restless blood of a new country, 
bringing with it an air of imminence and ad- 
venture. One felt that the impatient populace 
of this tent-city would sooner set themselves to 
make history under the blue than to read it in an 
arm-chair. 

What strange sights one beheld with the ar- 

9 



THE REAL FRONT 

riving of new contingents ! Perhaps it was a per- 
fectly ordered and accoutred battalion like the 
Fifth Royal Scots of Montreal, a city battalion, 
marching like regulars, with kilts and pipes, or 
perhaps a rough-and-ready detachment of the 
Rocky Mountain Rangers, singing and marching 
nonchalantly along, accompanied by their mas- 
cot, the cub of a grizzly bear. One saw dis- 
mounted troops of Western horse, with broad- 
brimmed Stetsons and shirts of red and pink. 
Some regiments and some companies, even at 
the first appearance, were soldiers to the minute; 
others, to quote a contemptuous corporal of the 
Northwest Mounted Police, "were the last ex- 
piring sigh." 

A majority of the First Canadians were from 
the Old Country. Many of these boys were 
ne'er-do-wells at home. One told me how the 
"Guv'nor" offered him "a fiver" and a second- 
class ticket to the farthest side of the world, and 
he said, "I beat it for Vancouver Island." The 
errant ones who flee farthest from the Motherland 
in times of peace fly swiftest to her side in war. 
In the rancher's shack and in the miner's cabin 
the sweetest word of all is "England." The " Old 
Country," they call her in terms of endearment, 
and the love of strong men ever binds them to 
the lintels of their home land. 

10 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

"Why did you come?" I inquired of one whose 
struggles to get back to civilization to join the 
army had been like Stanley's fight through the 
Dark Continent. 

"I came," he replied, simply, "because I had 
to come." 

There is a beautiful valley in the British 
Columbian mountains which, in the early au- 
tumn of 1914, was inhabited entirely by old 
army and navy officers. There were the golden 
fields and orchards, waiting for the harvest, but 
the call of war sounded in the mountain homes, 
and the men -folk left their harvests to pass 
untouched. Since then the women and children 
have departed, the place has become deserted, 
the winters and summers have come and gone, 
and the wilderness is closing in again on what was 
once a smiling valley. 

The hopes and dreams were bidden a fond 

farewell, but there was no repining. Only 

one fear was heard in Val Cartier Camp, 

and that was that the war might be over 

before we got there. With headlong im- 

petuousness these men had left all and come 

to serve the Old Gray Mother. Not how 

they fought, but the spirit in which they 

came to fight, is the Empire's greatest glory. 

Their Odyssey of Battle remains, a touchstone 

11 



THE REAL FRONT 

of British devotion, a proof of an empire tliat 
must endm'e. 

Under the bhie September sky and the shadow 
of the Lam-entian Mountains the embryonic 
army passed its training. Xo 'varsity team out 
for the season's trophy vv-erc more keen than they. 
Rumors from far-off battle-fields stole into the 
camp and were Hstened to ^^th wistful yearning. 
Would we ever get there, too.^ 

Beside the headquarters flagstaff was a row of 
tents inhabited by deep-chested, bull-necked 
men, with mighty voices, upon whose breasts 
were the ribbons of many campaigns, and whose 
faces were bronzed by the suns and winds of all 
the world. These were the lion-tammg drill 
sergeants, the omnipotent creators of the First 
Canadians, the demigods that transformed a 
mob into a regiment, and out of a menagerie 
brought forth a di^'ision. The little cockney 
might have his doubts, but ^^ith Col. Donald 
MacKenzie MacTa^'ish for commanding officer, 
and Sergeant-Major Fury for instructor, I soon 
saw that all things were possible for us. 

I had been promoted from the rank of a 
private to that of an officer, and in my new posi- 
tion, imfortunately, I missed the liu'id colors of 
the "Colonist Special for BerHn." 

One day I again saw my friend. Red Maclsaac. 

u 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

He was engaged at drill and, as usual, was in con- 
tentious mood. *'Wliat '11 I do that for?" he 
was expostulating. 

"You'll do that because hit's horders," thun- 
dered Sergeant-Major Fury. 

"Like hell I will," growled Maclsaac, fling- 
ing down his rifle to emphasize his indepen- 
dence. 

When I beheld the invincible Cape-Bretoner 
a few moments later he was bearing a huge pack 
on his back, marching back and forth at the 
double, while the implacable Sergeant-Major 
Fury shot orders at him like a Maxim. "Left 
turn! . . . Pick hit hup, I say — pick hit hup, 
now. . . . About turn. . . . Quick, now. . . • 
Pick hit hup there." 

Maclsaac was soaked with perspiration and 
his face was dark with shame and pain. But 
the countenance of the sergeant-major was a 
case of steel. Breaking incorrigibles was his 
profession. 

When I again saw Red Maclsaac it was at a 
little village called Shrewton, on the fringes of 
Salisbury Plains. The Fifth Royal Highlanders 
were doing picket duty in the town that day, 
and as I passed an inn called the "Catherine 
Wheel," in company with my major, the corporal 
of the guard called his men smartly to attention 

13 



THE REAL FRONT 

and gave us a clean-cut, sharp salute. His every 
attitude was that of a true soldier. 

"Fine smart soldiers, these Highlanders," said 
the major as we passed on; "perfect examples of 
discipline and soldierly spirit. Take that cor- 
poral, for instance." 

"Yes, sir," I answered, looking back at the 
erstwhile Red Maclsaac, of the Colonists' Special 
for Berlin. 

When on a dark cold night at the end of 
September we marched out of camp for the last 
time we had learned how to shoot and how to 
march with a pack, and had also acquired the 
elements of discipline. We had still need of a 
long schooling, but we had left the mob spirit 
far behind. There was a unity of company and 
regiment. It remained for General Alder son to 
teach us the unity of a brigade and of a whole 
division. 

We embarked on our transport in the morning, 
and late in the afternoon began to steam slowly 
down the St. Lawrence. Behind us lay Quebec, 
the gray city set upon a rock, towering up with 
its ancient walls to the crowning citadel, where a 
British flag waved out against the sunset sky. 
These were the same ramparts that frowned 
upon the ships of Wolfe on a September long ago. 
But in this distant autumn twilight the scene 

14 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

was changed, and, like our mother, old Quebec 
smiled down upon us as we sailed away. 

Gaspe Bay, an isolated estuary of the sea, 
presented a strange sight on the first morning of 
October, 1914. On shore the peaceful hills and 
white habitations of the French-Canadian farm- 
ers appeared as distant from the world as ever; 
but in the bay thirty-one great liners lay at 
anchor, while the entrance was guarded by a 
fleet of battle-ships and cruisers. 

The time of our sailing was secret. After two 
days' wait the signal was given, and in column 
the New World armada passed out to sea. Once 
clear of the land, three separate columns were 
formed, moving abreast with a cruiser at the head 
of each column. 

The trip across occupied fourteen days, and 
the transports were buffeted by more than one 
autumnal gale, but beyond a man falling over- 
board from one ship and being • picked up by 
the next there was no mishap. Our fleet 
arrived in the evening off Plymouth, and 
during the night pushed down the sound to 
the naval base at Devonport. In the morn- 
ing we found our slate-gray liners anchored 
safely beside the gray bulldogs of the British 
Navy. Our demonstrative American cousins 
could not have given a wilder welcome than 

15 



THE REAL FRONT 

that which was vouchsafed to us by the warm- 
hearted folk of Devon. 

There followed a week of dizzy, lurid days for 
the two old naval towns. The gay riders of the 
West and the bonnie ne'er-do-wells had returned* 
and they celebrated in a fitting manner. One 
old Jack Tar said, laughingly, "It looks as though 
they had tm-ned the Zoological Gardens loose 
through the dock-yard gates." Kipling said that 
we painted Plymouth pink, but that is putting it 
mild. We painted Plymouth red, as red as 
Louse Town in Dawson City in '98. 

Salisbury Plains will ever remain a nightmare 
for us. The few surviving veterans still in the 
front line speak of the Plains with greatest horror. 

On Salisbury Plains, chastened by suffering, 
saddened by yearnings for home, wounded to the 
quick by misunderstandings with our English 
instructors, tortured by the vilest winter climate 
on earth, often prostrated by sickness of the body, 
or by deeper sickness of the spirit, out of all this 
man-breaking and heart-breaking we were being 
hammered and wrought into an army unit. 
Gustave Dore's flesh-creeping pictures of hell are 
like unto my memories of Salisbury Plains. But 
out of this kaleidoscope of tragedies, as out of 
hell fire, came an Iron Division for service in an 
Iron War. 

16 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

From the joyous days of Plymouth we came to 
a bleak moorland miles removed from any city, 
where, from the middle of October to the follow- 
ing February, we learned our last lessons. It was 
pouring rain the night we arrived, and we hardly 
missed a day's rain from that time until our 
departure. 

What a rude contrast from that wild send-off 
from Plymouth at midnight, with bands and 
cheering throngs and pretty girls, to the troop- 
train on the siding at Market Lavington at 
3 A.M., our regiment beginning a ten-mile route 
march through the darkness and the rain to our 
distant camp. Daylight found us casting re- 
proachful eyes on a sad and sodden landscape. 
The sweet dream of Plymouth had faded, and we 
struggled, wet and weary, with tents and guy- 
ropes. 

Lieutenant-General Alderson was intrusted 
with the final task in the making of the First 
Canadians. A hard rider in the hunting-field, a 
keen sportsman, a deep student of military 
science, progressive in his views, firm in his 
discipline, broadened by a world-wide experience, 
and hardened by many campaigns. General 
Alderson was an ideal commander for Colonial 
troops. 

General Alderson's headquarters were situated 

2 17 



THE REAL FRONT 

in a small house known as the Woodcock Tavern 
in the heart of the moorlands. Outside in seas of 
mud the cars and horses of the headquarters 
staff came and went, while out over the desolate 
plains, miles apart, the camps of the different 
brigades stretched out their sodden tents, while 
the eternal winds and rains sw^ept over the 
downs. 

Reveille on the plains w^as no gay greeting of 
the dawn, as at Val Cartier. Sad as a funeral 
note, over the patter of the rain and the sough 
of the winds, the imperious bugles called us to 
another dark-drab day. No matter how gloom- 
ily the day began, dinner always found us gay, 
masters of our spirits. Hard exercise and cease- 
less training prevented repining, and brought 
forth strong bodies and brave spirits. 

One day during an arduous maneuver in 
filthy weather General Alderson rode up and 
addressed our brigade. 

"A soldier's life," he said, "is one of extreme 
hardship and privation." I remember how that 
saying came to me a week later, while our bat- 
talion was carrying out a scheme in night opera- 
tions. I was stationed with my platoon on a high 
crest, with orders to await the arrival of the 
main body. From midnight until 3.30 A.M. I 
waited, crouching behind a hedge, while a hurri- 

18 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

cane lashed us with sheets of rain. It is no dis- 
credit to my Burberry to say that I was soaked 
to the skin. We marched back to camp, oozing 
and shivering, and, joining our damp blankets 
together, we lay on the sodden ground and were 
soon dead to the world. Next morning, needless 
to say, our knees were stiff, hence the immediate 
necessity of a long route march to work out chills 
and rheumatism. 

Of course we were pioneers in that early winter 
of 1914, and as such we bore the hardships of 
inexperience and inadequate equipment. De- 
spite our best efforts, an epidemic of spinal 
meningitis, due to the life that we were living, 
broke out in the camp. Those were the saddest, 
bluest days that I experienced in my two and a 
half years of soldiering. Every day I could look 
out of my tent into the melancholic blur of mist 
and rain and see the draped gun-carriage moving 
to the "Dead March" from Saul, while one 
battalion or another slowly followed their com- 
rade to his grave. 

One week we had seventeen deaths in our 
regiment. Last winter when I was on the Plains 
again for a short time, for practice on the artillery 
ranges, I took a pilgrimage to the Canadian 
Cemetery at Bulford Manor, where four hundred 
Canadians of the first division lie buried. These 

19 



THE REAL FRONT 

were our casualties in the bitterest fight that 
we ever fought. 

There was a great deal of talk in those days 
about the Canadians' lack of discipline. I admit 
the charge, when we arrived in England, but 
under General Alderson we soon put that stigma 
under our feet. 

Many wild tales are told of the exploits of our 
troops in London. A Canadian bought a shil- 
ling's worth of cigarettes in the Lester Lounge. 
He handed the waiter a one-pound note and 
waited for his change, which was not forthcoming. 
So he whipped out his six-shooter and proceeded 
to shoot the heels off the cockney waiter's shoes. 
The unsophisticated-looking Westerner promptly 
received his change, and when the police arrived 
on the scene no Canadians were to be found. 

Much of the criticism that is meted out to us 
was due to the misunderstanding of opposite 
types. Englishmen could not see their time- 
honored traditions murdered by these "bally 
Colonials " without registering a kick. Old army 
officers were shocked at the sight of Canadian 
officers and rankers rolling about London arm 
in arm. These good English officers were uncon- 
scious of the fact that in Canada, before they 
donned the khaki, these two chaps were simply 

Bill and Don, and now, despite the fact that one 

go 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

wore oflScer's stars and the other a corporal's 
stripes, they are still Bill and Don to each other. 

The gouty old squires who had kicked their 
sons out were responsible for some of the strict- 
ures against us. One of our boys who had been 
disinherited got leave from the Plains and paid 
a visit to his boyhood village and the old squire's 
home. The old man, still sore, exclaimed: 

"What do you mean, sir, by coming back 
here?" 

"Oh," answered the incorrigible one, "I just 
dropped round to see what time it was by the 
town clock. Good day." 

Some of a later division, coming after the 
First Canadians, let it be known that they in- 
tended to live down the bad name which we had 
made in England. An old friend of ours, the 
Bishop of London, kindly replied, "You may be 
able to live down the name which the First 
Canadians have made in England, but you will 
have a task living up to the name which they 
have made in France." 

Long since, England has found in dealing with 
her citizen armies and her Colonial troops that 
old things have passed away. The Whitechapel 
loafer who joined the army in peace days for a 
shilling a day might be hammered into the 
automatic Tommy Atkins, but not so with these 

21 



THE REAL FRONT 

free-will volunteers. We could not pour new 
wine into old bottles, and we could not make 
New World troops into Old World armies. The 
truth of this statement needs no argument in 
England to-day. 

The First Canadians mastered well the lesson 
of discipline upon Salisbury Plains. Two months 
after leaving that field of training they faced the 
first gas attack at Ypres. The line on their left 
flank was broken for five miles, and for three days 
they were subjected to a hellish form of attack 
unknown in previous military exi^erience. But, 
unprepared as they were, they linked the gap in 
the line and held. Later, Sir John French said, 
"The Canadians saved the situation." General 
Alderson was able to accomplish what he did with 
the First Canadians at Ypres because of the 
Promethean task which he had formerly accom- 
plished in England. That demiurgic general 
had welded our elements of blood and iron, and 
fire and storm, with the unbreakable bands of 
discipline. Therefore, our line held at Ypres. 

"Long is the night that never finds the day,'* 
and finally the glad news came that we were going 
to France. The gladdest memory of our history 
was that February morning when we shook the 
mud of SalisburA^ Plains off our feet and in col- 
umn of route filed out from that loathed camp. 



THE MAKING OF THE FIRST CANADIANS 

All hearts beat high, for the epic days had come 
again. Going to France in those days was a high 
adventure. History was in the making, and we 
were off to make it. 

We sailed from Avonmouth on the 5th of 
February and arrived at St. Lazare on the 10th. 
Here we were issued with fur jackets and other 
necessities for winter campaigning, and, with 
three days' iron rations, were packed on board 
cattle-cars, bound up-country. For two days we 
crawled across France, cramped up in the narrow 
cars. Late one night our troop-train pulled into 
Hazebroke, a large town up-country in Flanders, 
serving as a rail-head. 

It was long after dark and the cold, drizzling 
rain was falling as the men tumbled out of the 
cars, adjusted Web-equipment, knapsacks, and 
rifles, and fell in at the points of assembly. A 
few sharp orders, and the battalions were briskly 
moving off. On my horse that night I galloped 
past many such moving battalions and long 
columns of guns and limbers. These were the 
First Canadians, no longer a rabble or a mob, but 
one united division, moving like one man to the 
appointed place. Before us, the roar of the guns 
and the scintillant flight of star-shells, and the 
first of the New World troops had come to take 
their place on the firing-line. 



II 

FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

TUST after the retreat from Mons a British 
^ soldier described his experience in France 
as follows: 

"I was shot off the transport into a troop-train, 
and from there into skirmish order, and the next 
thing I knew I was in the hospital in Blighty." 

The new American troops arriving on the 
fighting-line to-day will have no such swift and 
breathless transition. By slow and easy stages 
they will pass from the seaport base to the front- 
line trenches. Their progress will be a natural 
evolution, and their approach to the front will 
mark their advancement in training. The ar- 
rival of nev/ troops in the line, will be their 
graduation from school war to real war. 

On reaching France from America the trans- 
ports dock at a seaport base, where the troops 
disembark. The Americans, like the British, 
will have their own seaport base, and with the 

augmenting of her strength in the field this base 

24 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

will become more and more an American center, 
until it will be transformed into a veritable port 
of the United States across the water. 

The harbor will abound with American patrol- 
boats. American landing-officers will swarm the 
streets. Transatlantic liners flying the Stars and 
Stripes will be seen in the stream, and, by strange 
irony, ships which once flew the German flag 
will be landing New World troops, destined for 
battle to rid the seas of the curse of that same 
flag which once they flew. 

Long before the transport arrives a convoy of 
destroyers take her under their guardian care and 
escort her into port. Far out at sea the liner en- 
counters her protectors, which flash about her 
bow and stern like porpoises, or dart away toward 
the faintest presage of danger, flying back swiftly 
again to the side of their ward, and thus escorting 
her safely into the harbor. 

Shortly after the transport docks the work of 
disembarkation begins. The gang-planks are 
run out, and the men file off with heavy marching 
order and rifles. They fall in at the points of 
assembly and go swinging over the cobblestone 
pier and up into the town. 

The marching by of newly arrived troops is a 
familiar sight in the seaport base. In a steady 
and unbroken tide the manhood of England has 

25 



THE REAL FRONT 

thus flowed for months through these sluice-gates 
toward the trenches. Now the manhood of 
Am'^rica is flowing in a similar manner. 

To the military staff at the base and to the 
French citizenry this daily arrival of new troops 
is a common sight. But to the troops themselves 
it is an epic moment. From the time when they 
first thought of joining the colors, through all the 
ardors of their training, with its many changings 
and shiftings, they ever dreamed of the day 
when they should at last arrive in France. As 
the stolid mass of men in khaki swings along, its 
aspect, so coldly aloof and impersonal, is the 
inverse expression of the leaping excitements and 
thrilling impressions within. 

Each imperturbable soldier marching along 
carries a li\dng drama within his heart. He sees 
the cold gray piles of this Old World city and 
these monuments, hoary wdth memories, remind 
him that he, too, has come to the making of Old 
World history. This is the threshold. What 
has the future for him? His heart leaps as the 
splendor of daring and adventure allures him, 
while like somber shadows there steal across his 
mind the memories of home and loved ones 
that may nevermore be seen. 

To linger about a seaport base in France is to 
have more vi\'idly brought home to one the awful 

26 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

carnage of this struggle. Shipload after shipload 
of men and material are ever discharging, and 
trainloads of wreckage are ever returning. We 
see these strong men who have just arrived, spick 
and span and perfect in every appearance, mov- 
ing up one side, while down the other come the 
ambulances laden with befouled and shattered 
humanity. As a boy in the pink of health 
swings down the gang-plank at one end of the 
pier the stretcher-bearers are carrying another 
boy now limp and broken up the gang-plank to a 
hospital ship at the other end of the pier. 

One steamer is discharging new guns and lim- 
bers and shining equipment, while another is 
loading all kinds of wreckage which the salvage 
corps has gathered from the field of battle — 
broken gun-carriages, torn uniforms caked with 
mud and gore, rusty rifles, worn boots, bayonets, 
filthy blankets, belts, knapsacks, shattered shell- 
cases, and a thousand other mute reminders of 
the tragedy of war. 

From the seaport base the newly arrived 
troops march to the rest -camp, situated 
several miles outside of the town. A rest- 
camp is the strangest form of hostelry imagin- 
able. A great camp of tents and huts, afford- 
ing momentary hospitality to the troops en 
route to the front, a mammoth hotel where 

27 



THE REAL FRONT 

ten thousand may arrive in the night and move 
off in the morning. 

The commandant of the rest-camp at Havre 
said to me once: "I'm the biggest hotel-keeper 
in the world. Last night I was the host to nine 
regiments, all of whom were registered for a 
period of less than twenty-four hours. One 
night my hotel may be almost empty, and the 
next I may count my guests by the thousands.'* 

At the rest-camp the troops recover from the 
ardors of travel. Moving over long distances in 
groups of a thousand men is far more exhausting 
than the uninitiated would think. Civilian 
travel is exacting enough, but to move with a 
body of troops means infinitely more physical 
exertion, with endless waitings, and marchings 
and countermarchings. 

At the rest-camp the troops are issued with 
trench supplies and equipment. If it is winter, 
they get goatskin body jackets, and, parading 
in this rig, they resemble a mass of Arctic ex- 
plorers. 

Before a regiment moves off from the rest-camp 
the colonel often seizes the occasion to say a few 
fitting words to the men. The short speech of 
a Colonel Clark, commanding a battalion of 
the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, to his 
kilted men at the rest-camp at Havre in 1915 

28 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

still lingers with me. The men were drawn up 
in formation for divine worship. When the 
chaplain had ended his service Colonel Clark, a 
tall, grizzled Highland chieftain, stood forth and 
said: 

"Men, we are about to take our place as a part 
of that imperial living wall that stands between 
the Mother Country and her foes. It is an honor 
and a privilege for us to bear arms in this cause. 
My counsel to you for the struggles ahead is 
expressed in two verses of Scripture: first, 'Quit 
you like men, be strong,' and, second, *Do all to 
the glory of God.'" 

Later, I saw that gay and gallant regiment with 
pipes and bonnets swinging by, and, several 
months after, the familiar face of Colonel Clark, 
appearing among the dead heroes in the Roll of 
Honor, recalled to my mind his stirring words to 
his regiment on departing. The Scots are always 
sermon-tasters, they have many good preachers, 
but the thousand-odd men of that Argyll and 
Sutherland battalion never heard a finer ser- 
mon than those succinct and pointed words of 
their commanding officer. 

From the rest-camp the men march to the 
railway station, where they entrain for points up- 
country. The men go in cattle-cars, a most 
loathsome form of travel, especially on a long 



THE REAL FRONT 

journey. Traffic over the railway is so heavy 
that trains cannot be run fast on account of 
destruction to the permanent way. The troop- 
trains, therefore, crawl along as though they were 
drawn by mules instead of locomotive. 

The region between the seaboard base and the 
front comes under the nomenclature "Lines of 
Communication," referred to as "L. of C." 

"L. of C." is a most important phrase in war. 
It means the artery for supply and replenishment 
of all men and materials. Rail communication 
extends to a place well up-coimtry, just outside 
the zone of fire. This place is known as the rail- 
head. Beyond the rail-head communication is 
kept up by motor lorries, and beyond that by 
horse transport. Before a big battle the strain 
on the lines of communication is tremendous. 
Realizing the importance of railway communica- 
tion, the British have recently been running up 
several new and independent lines from the sea- 
board. It takes a complete line of railway to 
feed an effective push. If in the future we are to 
make several thrusts simultaneously, like the one 
on the Somme, it will require an independent rail- 
way line for each thrust. It is probable that the 
Americans, like the British, \\^11 have their own 
lines of communication. Let those who are im- 
patient as to the length of time taken for Ameri- 

30 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

can troops to get into the fighting bear in mind 
the problems of the lines of communication. 

The American troops moving up-country do 
not go direct from the rest-camp to the trenches. 
They are taken to a training-area situated some- 
where on the line of communication. In such a 
place many of the New World troops are now 
learning their last lessons. 

The training-area behind the trenches repre- 
sents the soldier's post-graduate course. He has 
aheady passed through many courses, but here 
he receives his last and most exacting instruc- 
tions. Vast areas of country are here hired from 
the French, and over this territory the troops 
maneuver in sham battle. All the contingencies 
of real war are staged on the training - area. 
Mines are sprung, craters are occupied, attacks 
of poison gas are launched, advances are made 
over all kinds of country against all conceivable 
obstructions, and every form of attack and de- 
fense is practised. 

Every regiment has its men trained for special 
tasks, and these all receive finishing touches in 
their appointed line. Machine-gunners, bomb- 
ers, and Stokes-gunners are informed as to the 
latest tricks in their trade, and experts just down 
from the front reveal to these coming artists of 
the Suicide Club the deeper secrets of their art. 



31 



THE REAL FRONT 

Life on the training-area is the most rigorous 
and exacting of all the period of a soldier's ap- 
prenticeship. The men are trained to march 
the longest distances with the greatest weight. 
They are bivouacked in the open in all kinds of 
weather and subjected to many privations and 
hardships. It is with a sigh of relief t,hat a man 
dons his pack for the last time and shoulders his 
rifle and marches off, a hard soldier, trained to 
the minute, and ready for the direst tests of war. 

Situated on the lines of communication are 
what we may call the gay towns, places where 
the troops out of the line for a holiday rendezvous 
for a good time. Some of these gay towns are 
gardens of unadulterated delight to the chaps 
who have had for days naught but the drab 
drudgery of the trenches. Every human being 
craves a change and recreation. Even the fight- 
ing-man must have a break, and he finds it in the 
gay towns. 

Men who live a strong life in the open do not 
take their pleasures mildly. They hit it up with 
considerable gusto. Gold-miners just back from 
the creeks into Dawson City, cowboys arriving 
in town after months on the ranges, and sailors 
ashore from whaling cruises, celebrate their ar- 
rival by "playing on the red." So it is with the 
boys just out of the line. They make these 

32 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

erstwhile quiet French towns "sit up and take 
notice." They always bring a strong breeze 
with them, or, as Sergeant Hell-fire MacDougal 
used to say, "While we're in town there's some- 
thing doing every minute." 

Leave, the great event in a soldier's career in 
France, may only come once in a year. It is sup- 
posed to occur oftener, but he is fortunate if he 
gets nine days out of twelve months in England. 
But while leave is generally so remote, there are 
always the nearer joys of a day off and a jam- 
boree in one of the gay towns. 

Let some of the long-faced kill-joys with every 
means of pleasure and yet never a sign of gladness 
regard our fighting lads, seizing an opportunity 
for recreation and enjoyment, and crowding 
every precious moment with the pure joy of life. 
When they set out for a good time they do the 
job perfectly. One must not imagine that I am 
referring to carousals and bacchanalias. Such 
things have been known to occur in the army, but 
the gay town, despite the fact that the feverish 
tide flows high, is always conscious of a certain 
overlord known as the A. P. M., who, with 
sundry associates, preserves that air of decorum 
which is fitting in well-disciplined armies. 

Chaps who are "going wide" soon find them- 
selves in the toils, and it is a far more terrible 

3 33 



THE REAL FRONT 

tiling to come under the ban of martial law at the 
front than it is at home. There is a certain 
leniency to the e^-il-doer in England, but mar- 
tial law is adamantine in France. 

Many tales are told in Great Britain of the 
incorrigibles that come from the Colonies, es- 
pecially from Australia and Canada. One hears 
no such tales in France. The wildest spirit must 
become tractable over there or a firing -party ends 
his stor^\ 

Amiens and St. Omer are topical of the gay 
towns. St. Omer was at one time the general 
headquarters of the British armies. Here dv>'elt 
Sir John French and staff. On a quiet house on 
a certain side-street the British flag flew by day 
and a red-and-blue light shone by night. This 
was the sign of the commander-in-chief, and in 
years to come i)eople will point to that house, 
just as they do to the house which Wellington 
occupied at Waterloo. 

If G. H. Q. has departed from St. Omer the 
gay life still throbs in its streets. In its res- 
taurants, its jardins, its open squares, one still 
sees throngs of bright faces, men from a bare 
existence who have come back for a moment to 
snatch the sweetness of civilization. Their very 
attitude as they sit at tea, as they scan the hotel 
menu, as they lean against the American bar in 

34 



FROM THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

the Grand Place or saunter about the park shov/s 
that they are exhilarated in every moment. It 
often seems as though a man's enjoyment were 
inversely proportionate to his opportunity for 
the same. The more straitened the existence 
the more keen seems its appreciation of happiness 
when it arrives. 

St. Omer is purely a British center. French 
troops are rarely seen there. Amiens, on the 
other hand, is a gay town where French and 
British alike mingle in the merry throngs. 

Last fall when the Somme push was on Amiens, 
lying about twenty miles behind the fighting- 
area, was supposed to be the gayest town in 
France. The air of Amiens at that time always 
reminded one of Byron's description of Brussels 
when he says: 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry. 

I was in Paris last fall for a couple of days, but 
the French capital seemed tame compared to the 
zest of life which I had just before experienced 
in the provincial town which served as the 
rendezvous for our merrymaking. 

Amiens is a splendid town, with a historic 
cathedral, fine shops and buildings, and many 

35 



THE REAL FRONT 

attractions to the pleasure-seeker. One Sunday 
afternoon in September when I arrived in the 
town with a pal it seemed to me that Amiens 
was the most delightful place that I had ever 
seen on earth. Lousy and wet in rain and mud, 
I had been lying that morning in the most un- 
wholesome area beyond Pozieres Cemetery. But 
that was my day off, and now in the afternoon I 
was clothed anew, and drinking in every moment 
like sparkling wine. I swept into this glorious 
town on board a motor-lorry. The difference 
between the morning and the afternoon seemed 
like the difference between hell and heaven. It 
was this sudden contrast, of course, that rendered 
my appreciation so poignant. 

My pal and I were worse than two kiddies just 
released from school. We rushed against the 
crowds on the boulevard, stemming the throngs 
with glee. We darted into one cafe and out 
again, and passed through a cinematograph show 
just as quickly. No place could contain our 
exuberant spirits. Everybody on the streets 
and in the parks seemed to feel just as irre- 
pressible. We encountered several friends and 
found that their spirits were just as effervescent 
as ours. 

At night in the swellest cafe we partook of the 
finest which they could offer. Every one in that 



FROINI THE BASE TO THE FIRING-LINE 

caf6 that night had the aspect of bringing with 
him to his meal a relish which no chef could 
give. 

Midnight found us outside the barriers of 
Amiens, slogging along back to the front. No 
friendly motor-lorry picked us up, and we had 
to cover the many miles between Amiens and 
Albert on foot, and then we had another mile 
to our wagon-lines. Dawn found us crawling 
into our sleeping-bags dead tired, but satisfied. 

The last link in the chain between the base 
and the firing-line we may call billets. Billets 
are generally situated in the, houses and build- 
ings of a shattered town on the fringes of the zone 
of fire. One who has come this far has arrived 
in the unhealthy area. Gaping shell-holes, fallen 
roofs, and shattered walls bear witness to the fact 
that one is within range from which his foe may 
strike. 

At any time the momentary peace of the place 
may be broken by whirring sounds and crashings 
in the side-streets. ** Silent Lizzies" from the 
distant long-range guns of the foe at regular in- 
tervals may come with dread destruction. 

To be shelled in billets is rather a nasty ex- 
perience. To those who are dedicated to the 
safety corps jobs behind the lines it is a terrifying 
event, but to the seasoned infantryman it arouses 

37 



THE REAL FRONT 

more of disgust than fear. *' Being killed by a 
Silent Lizzie back at billets is like being run over 
b^^ a hearse or dying a natural death. If a man's 
hit by a shell back there God must have meant 
'im to die. That's all," declared one philosophic 
Tommy. 



Ill 

WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

Thank God, they come! 
The guns! The guns! 

npHE artillery is the last dashing phase of the 
-■' war game. For the cavalry and the infan- 
try the elan of old-time combat has passed, but 
the glory of Mars still lingers with the guns. 

He is a slow and timorous spirit indeed who 
does not feel a quickening of the pulse as he be- 
holds a battery of horse artillery going by at the 
gallop, "With steeds that neither gods nor man 
can hold, and screams that drive your innards 
cold." 

War in the front-line trenches to-day is less 
glorious than a slaughter-house in Chicago. But 
to stand in the darkness of the night behind a 
battery, listening to the sighing of the winds 
and the rustling of the trees, then out of silence 
to hear a voice imperious and sharp ring out, 
"Battery fire," and to see the lightnings leap 
and feel the earth reverberate, is a memorable 



THE REAL FRONT 

experience. It is as thougii one had heard and 
seen the mighty Jove let loose the thunders. 

For the poor infantrymen, crouching like 
hunted beasts under the crashing parapet of the 
front line, there is little of splendor in modern war. 
But back with the guns, to hear a quiet voice 
directing fire, and to look out as from a height 
upon the storm, to behold far and wide across the 
night that white and iridescent line where star- 
shells flame and Verey rockets flash, where red 
signals of distress call out through bursting 
clouds of shrapnel, to see and hear all this is to 
feel the thrill of battle. 

That trail of iridescent white is leaping hell for 
the men who hold the trenches. But for the 
gunners who loosen the lightnings it is still re- 
plete with the splendor of war. Lord Nelson at 
the battle of Copenhagen, when the mast was 
splintered beside him, said, "We may be dead in 
a minute, but I wouldn't be elsewhere for 
thousands." This is the feeling at the guns, 
where over death and chaos the voice of man 
still holds the mastery. 

To an old artilleryman the gun possesses a 
soul, a soul that speaks for him. In the rage of 
battle the voice of the guns is the voice of rage 
for the men who serve them. 

For two years I moved up and down the various 

40 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

portions of our line in France, ever learning more 
of our beastly foe, until the knowledge of their 
atrocities produced in my soul, not a mere 
spirit of opposition, but a flaming passion. 

On the fifteenth day of September, 1916, it 
wasn't somebody else's quarrel; it was my own 
fight. With me were a group of the old First 
Canadian artillery drivers, every single one of 
whom had a personal hatred in his soul for the 
Huns. We were moving up with ammunition 
for our greatest bombardment on the Somme. 
Imagine, then, the music to our ears as we tore 
over the last crest and heard the unbroken voice 
of a thousand guns speaking down Sausage Val- 
ley. It was four o'clock in the morning, and 
pitch dark, but the long valley itself was one 
continual stream of leaping lightning. Over a 
thousand guns were massed there that morning, 
and every gun was firing at white heat. 

At first far away, like distant surf, I heard the 
bombardment. But as I came over the top of 
each successive hill the sound grew louder, and 
as I rode my horse over the last crest and Sausage 
Valley burst out before me, it seemed that the 
whirlwinds of thunder would sweep me from my 
saddle. 

For a moment I was dazed by the awful shock 
of noises. Then the meaning of it all flashed 

41 



THE REAL FRONT 

upon me, and I was happy — a creature of the 
very storm itself. This was England's answer 
to the Hun, our voice to the Beast. From the 
smoking chimneys of our arsenals to the reeking 
mouths of our guns we had one spirit, and 
now down Sausage Valley with an unbroken voice 
that spirit spoke. 

The rapid-fire 18-pounders were massed with 
quick staccato; 60-pounders spoke with the crack 
of a giant whiplash; 9.2 and 12 inch howitzers 
bayed like bloodhounds in hell; while the naval 
guns behind added their roar to the diapason of 
battle. Altogether, blended in one voice, this 
was our challenge to the German Song of Hate. 

The picture of Sausage Valley on the Somme, 
as it stretched out before me that morning, was 
my most splendid spectacle of all this war; it was 
a spectacle of the glory of the guns. 

Few realize that modern artillery in the field 
still thrills with war's romance. It is the aim of 
this chapter to show something of that dashing 
side of war and to convey some idea of the day's 
work for the servants of the guns. 

There are three different branches of artillery — 
light, siege, and heavy. With the light guns one 
sees the most adventure, for it is fullest of danger 
and dash. The siege artillery includes the howit- 
zers above the 4.5. The 4.5 is included in the 

42 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

light artillery. The difference between a how- 
itzer and an ordinary field-gun is that the how- 
itzer may be fired at a higher angle and the charge 
may be lessened so as to cause a steep angle of 
descent. The howitzer is used chiefly against 
intrenchments and redoubts with strong over- 
head protection. Where a field-gun with a maxi- 
mum charge would pierce through, a howitzer 
bursts in from the top. It is, therefore, an ideal 
gun against intrenchments and overhead de- 
fenses. 

The heavy artillery is made up of the long- 
range naval guns of heavy caliber. They are 
used to take on distant targets far behind the 
enemy's lines. I saw a battery of 6-inch naval 
guns in action one day near Albert, or, to be 
more exact, I felt them in action. I was riding 
my horse in front of the battery and did not 
notice the long barrel pointing high into the air 
until there came a report with a whir over my 
head and a concussion that nearly laid me on the 
ground. 

For a moment I strained my ear to the whir 
of the shell, and in imagination I followed the 
great projectile until it crashed into some peace- 
ful headquarters town far behind the Boche 
trenches, perhaps causing consternation to a 
German general and his staff, or perhaps burst- 

43 



THE REAL FRONT 

ing on the crossroads amidst a group of ordnance 
people who esteemed themselves miles outside 
of danger. 

We call the shells fired by the great naval guns 
"Silent Lizzies" because they pass with such 
high velocity that one hardly hears them in their 
flight. Like a bolt from the blue, in places that 
preen themselves on their immunity from shell- 
fire, the Silent Lizzie may burst with sudden and 
awful havoc. 

One hears a good deal about the 15 -inch guns 
along the line, but one never sees them, and they 
are rarely heard. They are moved up and down 
on a railroad, and are situated so far behind as to 
be the envy of all the men on the front line. One 
often hears those who are sick of the trenches 
declare, "In the next war I'm going to join the 
fifteen -inch guns." 

In the Ypres salient last year, whenever the 
Germans bombarded the town of Poperinghe, as 
was their habit, we always got busy with our 
15-inch naval gun in reply. This 15-inch gun 
was laid on a German general's headquarters 
miles behind the trenches. A few shots from our 
Silent Lizzie always caused Fritz to cease bom- 
barding Poperinghe, bearing witness to the ac- 
curacy of our long-distance ranging, Fritz, by 
his sudden ceasing of fire, mutely imploring, 

44 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

"Please don't fire any more of those awful things 
at my general, and I won't fire any more at the 
women in Poperinghe." 

With a battery in action there are three dis- 
tinct zones of operation: first, the ammunition 
column; second, the guns; third, the observation 
post. 

The Ammunition Column 

The supply of ammunition to the guns is a 
task of crucial importance. The issues of battle 
depend as much on the proper supply of shells 
as upon the skilful handling of the guns. 

The ammunition comes up from the seaboard 
base by train. It is delivered at the rail-head of 
the army to motor-lorries, by which it is con- 
veyed to the ammunition dump, situated on the 
fringes of the zone of shell-fire. 

From the ammunition dump the shells are de- 
livered direct to the guns. The heavy stuff is 
hauled by motor-lorry, while the light artillery 
keep up their supply by means of horse transport. 
Before a big battle an unmistakable evidence of 
the coming storm is the road blocked with am- 
munition limbers moving in one continuous 
stream toward the guns. 

When a field battery is situated far forward in 
a position of difficult approach all kinds of ob- 
stacles have to be overcome to get there. Sopi^- 

45 



THE REAL FRONT 

times the ground is so bad in wet weather that 
it is impossible to take limbers through, as they 
become mired on the way. On such occasions 
the shells are taken through by pack-saddle. 
Sleds are sometimes used over the mud. Trench 
tramways also serve as an expedient. 

If a battery is situated in a position the ap- 
proaches to which are under observation of the 
enemy, the hauling of ammunition must be done 
at night. Moving across an unknown country in 
the inky blackness, where the roads are obliter- 
ated and the ground pocked with shell-holes, with 
a long column of horses and limbers, is a baffling 
task for the officer in charge. 

Sometimes in desperate straits the order comes 
to rush ammunition through to the guns in day- 
light under observation. A veritable Balaclava 
charge ensues, with the wreckage of horses and 
limbers and gallant drivers strewn along the way. 
In a place known as Death Valley, on the Somme, 
last fall, the artillery drivers on several occasions 
made a grueling hell-for-leather charge in the 
face of the enemy's guns that equaled that of the 
light brigade. 

At the Guns 

The guns are generally situated a mile or two 
behind the trenches. The heavy guns are often 
at a greater distance. 

46 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

One of the most important things in a good 
gun position is concealment. Woods and groves 
of trees always make ideal hiding-places for bat- 
teries. Sometimes they are in the open, behind 
a crest. A trellis-work of wire covered with 
leaves is often erected for overhead concealment 
from aeroplanes. 

Batteries of howitzers, with high-angle fire, 
may be placed in all kinds of unlikely places, as 
there is no trouble for them in clearing the crest. 
I saw a battery of howitzers in a farm-yard cov- 
ered with tarpaulin when not in use. In that 
position they were practically immune from 
observation. When in action they would merely 
shoot over the roof of the barn. The poor barn 
had been shelled over so much that it required 
the reinforcement of many steel rails to prevent it 
from collapsing. 

The greatest precaution must be taken at 
the guns to prevent the enemy from observ- 
ing their position. The science of conceal- 
ment is now a fine art. One could pass over 
a country bristling with guns and never dream 
that there was a battery in the vicinity until, 
without any warning, they start to pop off 
in every direction. Such sudden surprises are 
most disconcerting to one who is not ac- 
quainted in that region, as he does not know 

47 



THE REAL FRONT 

whether he is in front of or behind the wicked 
creatures. 

Flash-screens made of canvas are erected at a 
distance in front of the guns to conceal their 
flash from the enemy at night. 

The sight of an aeroplane over a battery posi- 
tion causes immediate cessation of all movement. 
From a funk hole one watches the enemy's plane 
with apprehensive eye. If he detects the bat- 
tery, it means a li\4ng hell for the gunners. 

Being shelleil out of a battery is a distressing 
experience. The enemy's guns are registered ac- 
curately on the battery position by aeroplane. 
One may hear the whu' of a few shells, never 
dreaming that they are scientifically searching 
for him. T\lien the registration has been ac- 
curately completed, an exact record of the ranges 
and deflections is kept. Some quiet night the 
doomed battery awakens in terror to realize the 
fact that its fate is sealed. 

The lines of fire are laid out by an officer on a 
map by a system of triangulation. A fixed aim- 
ing-point is picked out on the base line, and all 
orders are given as so many degrees right or left 
of the aiming-point. During the horn's of dark- 
ness a night light is hung in front of the guns to 
serve the same function a^ the aiming-point by 

day. 

48 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

In registering the guns by aeroplane the ob- 
server flies to a position from which he can com- 
mand a view of the target and signals back by 
wireless that he is in a position of readiness for 
observation. The wireless on the ground an- 
swers '*No. 1 gun firing," and a few seconds later 
the officer in the aeroplane observes the burst 
of No. 1 shell. He orders the corrections accord- 
ing to a prearranged clock system, and thus 
finally directs the gun onto the target. I have 
seen a gun being registered by aeroplane make 
the target on the third shot, which, of course, is 
phenomenal registering. 

The daily round at the guns in quiet seasons i^ 
rather monotonous. There must not be any ex- 
cessive movement, for fear of disclosing the posi- 
tion, and in the dark gun-pits and holes in the 
ground the hours drag heavily. In the front line 
there is an air of expectancy, but at the guns 
one misses this. I always enjoyed the days I 
spent in the front trenches as forward observing 
officer, looking forward to them as a relief from 
the monotony of life at the guns. 

The orderly officer of the battery inspects the 

sights of each gun, once by night and once by 

day, to see that they are laid correctly on the 

SOS targets, ready for any emergency. 

When not in action the gunners are generally 
4 49 



THE REAL FRONT 

busy keeping gun-pits and dugouts in condition, 
erecting new or stronger overhead protection, 
perfecting concealment, or adding to their do- 
mestic comfort. It is wonderful what labor and 
inventiveness will accomplish when it sets itself 
to making "a happy home" underground. 

There are many different tasks assigned to the 
guns in the day's work. In the morning they 
may have a job cutting wire for the infantry, 
who are going over for a raid or an attack. They 
may be called upon to retaliate on certain vul- 
nerable positions of the enemy in reply to a 
strafe which he is giving our infantry. If a 
barrage or curtain of fire is being kept up on 
enemy's back roads to prevent the bringing up 
of supplies or ammunition, one battery may take 
on the job at schedule time, to be relieved again 
by another battery later on. This continual 
keeping up of a barrage around a certain place 
effectively shuts that place off from all outside 
communication. 

In the town of Combles last fall we found the 
Huns starved to death in the streets, no rations 
having been able to penetrate our barrage for days. 

The bombardment is a time of intense excite- 
ment and activity at the guns. A 4.5 howitzer 
battery, to which I was attached in the Ypres 
salient in 1916, fired three thousand rounds 

50 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

between 7 a. m. and the following 1.30 A. M. 
This was at the time that the Canadians retook 
Sanctuary Wood, which they had lost a short 
time before. The major was called out at night 
for a conference at group headquarters; on re- 
turning he announced, "We've got a stiff day 
ahead to-morrow; three thousand rounds is our 
assignment." The continual shock and roar of 
the guns during such a bombardment is a ter- 
rific strain on the nervous system. 

At one o'clock that night we opened up an 
intense bombardment of every gun in the Ypres 
salient, from the 18-pounders to Old Grand- 
mother, away back on the far hill; every gun 
joined in. At the last five minutes of a time 
like this the officer's nerves are strained as taut 
as a violin-string. With trembling hand he ex- 
amines his watch, apprehensive of every last 
second. To fire over-time would be to kill our 
own infantry. At one-thirty sharp the cry of 
"Stop!" rings out, and a silence almost as dis- 
tressing as the previous roar ensues, and we 
know that in that grim silence our infantry far 
up under the star-shells are going over the top. 
Sentries are mounted at the battery every night 
to keep a continual watch of the front line for 
the SOS signal, which is the cry for help from 
the trenches. From time to time during the 

51 



THE REAL FRONT 

night the sentries are relieved, but those on duty 
always have their eyes fixed on that zone which 
comes under the protection of our guns. Out 
of the darkness suddenly a long trail of blue- 
and-crimson light may shoot up into the night, 
bursting above into a crimson spray. At this 
signal the sentry shouts, "SO S!" and rushes 
down the battery, awakening the gunners, who 
come tumbling out of their dugouts, and rush 
for the gun-pits. 

Sergeant Hellfire MacDougal of our battery, 
who commanded No. 1 gun crew, was always in 
his element on times like this. He would come 
leaping out of a sound sleep and lash his gun 
crew into action with astounding rapidity. From 
down in the darkened gun-pit would come a 
stream of fervid language as Hellfire put the 
lightning in the heels of his crew. 

The guns are laid on permanent SOS tar- 
gets, and it is only a matter of a few minutes 
until they can be fired in answer to the SOS. 
But every second counts. Perhaps a mine has 
been sprung or a front line has been penetrated 
by a surprise attack, and the complete success 
of the enemy can only be prevented by the in- 
stantaneous action of the guns. 

Down in the gun-pits the gunners work like 

furies at their task. Nothing could excel the rapid- 

52 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

ity and precision with which each man goes 
through his movement. With the infallibility of 
a perfect machine the fuse is set, shell is rammed 
home, the charge prepared and placed in the 
breech, the breech-block jammed, and the layer 
sings out, "Ready!" 

"Fhe!" orders the No. 1, and the gun-pit 
shakes to the reverberations, and a long tongue 
of forked lightning shoots out of the gun-pit. 
As the gun runs up from the recoil the No. 2 opens 
the breech-block, and a great rush of lm*id back- 
fire leaps from the breech, disclosing for a mo- 
ment an uncanny picture of seven men who make 
up the gun crew, stripped to the waist and work- 
ing for dear life. 

Sergeant Hellfire MacDougal used to make it 
his boast that he could always get his gun fired 
before any other in the salient. He generally 
made good his boast, but the rivalry was keen. 

Five minutes after the SOS signal sent its 
cry through the night a thousand guns might be 
answering to its call. The effect of such a sud- 
den outburst is most inspiriting to the fighting- 
men. I once heard an infantryman who was pass- 
ing by QUI battery when the lid was thus suddenly 
blown off of hell yell in an ecstasy of delight: 

"That's the idea, bo! Soak it to 'em — ^hit 'em 
one for me." 

53 



THE REAL FRONT 

Hellfire !MacDougal was addicted to the habit 
of chewing tobacco. Black Xapoleon was his 

favorite brand. He would bite off a great ciiimk 
of Honey Dew, spit with a repnDrt like a Maxim, 
and then send a leaping. blood-curdling oath at his 
gun crew. I believe that Hellfire was descended 
from tbe Buccaneers. His forebears must have 
dwelt on the Spanish !Main. He, at least, was 
much indebted to the Kaiser for starting the 
war, for, as he put it, he had the-hell-of-a-good- 
time out of it, and of course he could never be 
killed. As he expressed it, **They 'ain't made 
the bullet yet that '11 get 77Z^." 

On one occasion an armor-piercing shell burst 
through his gun-pit and detonated on the gun. 
The crew were in action at the time and every 
man was blown to pieces. Hellfire at the mo- 
ment was having a httle target-practice of his 
own, with a squirt of tobacco-juice just outside 
the gun-pit, and he went untouched. 

''That's what comes from usin' Black Xapo- 
leon, boys I'' he announced, nonchalantly, when 
one referred to his miraculous escape. 

The Ohsenaiion Post 

Indirect fire is the general method in this war 
— that is, firing at an unseen target by means of 
a fixed aiming-point, the fire itself being directed 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

by a forward observing officer, known as the 
F. O. O., who, from some vantage-point in ad- 
vance, observes the burst of our shells and wires 
the correction to the guns in the rear. 

The observation post may be situated in any 
convenient position that commands the enemy's 
zone; the steeple of a church, the top of a house 
or a barn, a lofty tree, a high cliff, a shell crater, 
may serve as the O. P., as it is called. The O. P. 
is always a dangerous place, as the enemy's guns 
are continually searching the opposite side for 
points likely to serve for observation. 

Early in the war when artillery officers got 
together one heard of wild experiences in pre- 
carious O. P.'s, most of which have long since 
been shot to kindling-wood. On one occasion an 
artillery officer had just ensconsed himself in a 
lofty steeple, which had been all but shot away> 
when the enemy opened fire on the steeple again. 
Before the observer could make good his retreat 
the enemy registered a direct hit on the tottering 
structure and the whole thing crashed to earth, 
smashing the unfortunate gunner to death, and 
burying him in heaps of debris. 

Among the commonest places for an O. P. is 
the upper story of an old house or barn. These 
lonely buildings, often all that remains on a 
razed and shattered landscape, are the most 

55 



THE REAL FRONT 

deplorable places imaginable in which to spend 
the night. In the long, silent houi's of darkness 
it seems as though the ghosts of other days were 
ever running riot through the place. 

We had an O. P. once in a place known as 
"The Haunted Chateau." It was situated on a 
high hill, surrounded by a grove of trees which 
were stripped bare from shell-fire. Thi'ough the 
bare wood the wind would moan at night like a 
lost soul, while the rafters of the place would 
creak, and from the vaulted cellars imagination 
seemed to catch all kinds of voices. 

I have heard Signaler Muldooney during his 
lonely watch cry out as though in pain from the 
horror of that place at night. Signaler Mul- 
dooney would go through a curtain of fire without 
batting an eye. But The Haunted Chateau was 
too much for his nerves. 

The attic of The Haunted Chateau afforded a 
splendid observation post. Below, everything 
had been smashed to pieces. Careful hands had 
gently nursed that rickety attic, and new beams 
and piles of sand-bags had kept it from crashing 
down, though, as Muldooney put it, "Ye could 
hear her sway when the wind blew." 

From the topgallant window of this precarious 
structure a perfect view of the enemy lines could 
be obtained. Only the concealment of the wood 

56 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

had saved the chateau from being pulverized 
long ago. Fritz, however, suspicious of the 
wood, had a bad habit of suddenly popping 
off a few rounds in that direction. At such 
times the rickety attic was a most unpopular 
place. 

To fire the battery from the O. P. the F. O. O. 
would first get his telescope on the target and 
then call out, "Ready!" which the telephoners 
would repeat over the 'phone. From far down 
at the guns would come back the warning, 
"No. 1 gun firing," and a moment later the 
F. O. O. would observe the shell burst, perhaps 
a little short and too much to the left, so he 
would call out, "Ten minutes more left — add 
fifty'/' meaning that the gun would be deflected 
ten minutes more from the aiming-point and 
elevated for fifty yards more. If this was not on 
he would make another correction, and continue 
in this manner until the shell hit the target. 
This is called registering a battery. 

Sometimes the O. P. is situated in the front 
line, as often in the flat country of Flanders 
there is no vantage-point in the rear. 

The observing officer goes forward for a two 
days' stunt in the front line, taking with him a 
party of signalers and linemen. On arriving in 
the trenches the F. O. O. reports to the battalion 

57 



THE REAL FRONT 

commander at the headquarters' dugout, situated 
in the support trenches. 

"While on the front line it is the duty of the 
F. O. O. to keep the guns in touch with the 
infantry. The battalion commander may call 
upon him at any time for retaliation, or to shoot 
up any new target that may present itself. 

After leaving the battalion headquarters the 
F. O. O. relieves the officer who has been on duty 
the past two days, who hands over to him a log- 
book containing intelligence of all happenings in 
the front line for the past forty-eight hours. 

The gunner officer in the front line is not 
merely there to observe for his guns; he is also 
to gather all possible intelligence pertaining to 
his own zone. A record is kept of all hostile fii'e 
observed, by which it is determined whether the 
enemy's artillery is weak or strong at the time in 
that particular zone. 

In his intelligence duties the F. O. O. is the 
newspaper reporter of the front line. With peri- 
scope and compass, followed by a trusty signaler, 
he moves along the bays of the fire trench in his 
quest for news. Three balloons are observed, 
and he takes the bearings of them with his 
magnetic compass. Next he makes note of an 
aeroplane crossing the line, flying low. 

Seeing a group eagerly peering at a looking- 

58 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

glass attached to the end of a bayonet, which 
serves as a periscope, he inquires, "Anything 
doin' here, boys?" 

"Yes, sir," answers a sergeant. "It looks like 
a new emplacement, five degrees left of the bare 
tree." 

The artillery officer turns his own periscope, 
which magnifies ten diameters, on the object 
named, and whistles to himself. 

"Yes, you're onto something, all right. Ser- 
geant," he exclaims. "That's what we call The 
Major's Dugout, which we shot up some time 
ago, and now they've built it up again, only a 
little lower. But we'll shoot it up again to-night 
with our howitzers. I think it's a machine-gun 
emplacement." 

A little farther along he observes a great rent 
in the Boche parapet. This is the work of our 
trench mortars, who have been having a little 
strafe of their own. A sentry in another bay 
shows him a fuse which he has found. The 
gunner recognizes the fuse as coming from a cer- 
tain high-velocity shell, and makes a note of a 
new gun on his front. 

At night all the various items gathered to- 
gether by the F. O. O. are written down and 
telephoned back to the artillery group head- 
quarters. On the following day they appear in 

59 



THE REAL FRONT 

tlie war zone newspaper, known as The Corps 
Intelligence Summary, Under the heading "In- 
formation from Om* Own Front, I — Enemy's 
Front and Support Lines" the trench reporter 
reads his news gathered the day before. 

The Intelligence Summary is regarded by some 
as a weighty production, but Tommy, in fine 
contempt, calls it *' Comic Cuts." But despite 
the irreverence of Tommy, this sheet contains 
the ultimate war news, and the unknown cub 
reporters on that front-line street of adventure are 
daily recording history that some day ponderous 
professors shall sift out with weighty conmient. 

In time of battle the F. O. O., if he is not ob- 
serving in the front line, is generally at battalion 
headquarters, giving every latest happening to 
the anxious ears at the guns. Into the battalion 
headquarters, as into a whispering gallery, come 
the rumors from all parts of the trenches: 
"Oiu' guns are shooting short" . . . "Enemy 
are coming over" . . . "Enemy have pene- 
trated into oiu* front in thirty-seven" . . . 
"Trench mortars are criunping in parapet of 
thirty-five." All these items are passed back 
immediately to the guns and determine their 
poHcy in the battle. 

Keeping up communications during a bom- 
bardment is a most difficult and dangerous task. 

60 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

Sometimes the lines are broken simultaneously 
in several places by shell-fire. Instantly that 
communication is broken, linemen are despatched 
to mend the wires. They move out simultane- 
ously from both ends, following along the line 
until they discover the break and mend it. 

To move out across a field where death is fall- 
ing like leaves in an autumn forest requires the 
finest kind of pluck. But the signalers never 
seem to fail. 

"Hearn, the wires are down!" exclaims the 
ofiicer who has been for a minute fruitlessly 
fingering the telegraph-key. 

*'Very good, sir," answers the faithful Hearn, 
and leaves the protection of the deep dugout and 
begins to run along the trench with shells crump- 
ing in every direction. Some time passes. 
Hearn does not return, and the communication 
is not re-established. 

"Mitchell, I guess Hearn has gone down. 
You carry on his place," is the next order. 

"Very good, sir," answers Mitchell, and with- 
out a question goes out into the storm of bursting 
shrapnel. 

Sometimes one lineman after another is de- 
spatched, and all fail to return. But at all costs 
communication must be re-established. There 
are no braver men in the war than the artillery 

61 



THE REAL FRONT 

signalers, and none who make a greater sacrifice 
in the path of duty. During three months in 
the Somme last fall our battery had its signalers 
completely wiped out three times in succession. 
It got so that I never expected to meet one of 
the old-timers after the second or third trip. 

**' Where is Mac?" one would inquire, missing 
an old face. 

**'0h, he went west last week," would be the 
answer. 

When we are attacking, the forward observing 
officer goes over the top just like the rest. He 
generally goes with the second wave, which also 
includes the colonel and headquarters sta5 of the 
battalion. Once out in Xo Man's Land, the 
F. O. O. and his signalers make for a prearranged 
point in the enemy's line which is to serve as the 
new advanced O. P. 

As the artillery party crosses Xo Man's Land 
a field telephone is carried with them, and a wire 
is run out connecting them with the guns. K 
the first F. 0. O. goes down, word comes back to 
the reserve officers waiting in front-line dugouts, 
and a second steps forth to fill the place of him 
who has fallen. Sometimes before the attack is 
over the third or fourth may be called out to fill 
the gap. 

It is the duty of the F. 0. 0. during an attack 



WITH THE ROARING GUNS 

to keep the guns informed as to the position of our 
advancing infantry, as to what objectives have 
been gained, how we are holding, where we are 
losing, and if any guns are firing short. 

One sees bloody sights on first entering the 
front-line trenches, where the mopping-up bat- 
talions are busy with bombs and bayonets. The 
tide of battle here is always changing, and what is 
ours now, within an hour may be in the enemy's 
hands again. Everything is uncertain, and our 
line is always shifting. 

One F. O. O. who advanced with the farthest 
wave established himself in a Boche dugout, and 
was busily engaged in studying his map when he 
heard bombs explode in the next dugout, occu- 
pied by his signalers. Rushing to the entrance of 
his dugout, the officer was startled to see the 
backs of three Germans, who were engaged in 
bombing his signalers next door. With a quick 
draw of his Colt .45 he despatched the three Huns, 
through the back, and, leaping out, found the 
trench entirely abandoned by our troops, they 
having retired without giving the artillery officer 
warning. All his signalers were killed. Need- 
less to relate, Arthur Duffy had nothing on that 
F. O. 0. for speed, when he once started to retire. 
The artillery still thrills with high adventure. 
In the precarious and shell-swept observation 

63 



THE HEAL FRONT 

post, by the roaring, reeking mouths of the guns; 
or with the ammunition limbers thundering 
around Suicide Corner or tearing down Death 
Valley — in all its phases it still presents the 
colors of romance against the otherwise somber 
background of modern war. 



IV 

ANGELS OF DEATH 

l^OODCOTE FARM was an island invul- 
^ ^ nerable, situated on a wide sea of desola- 
tion. Bedford House near by was shattered. 
What was once known as Bedford Wood was 
now aptly described by the Tommy as "Bedford 
Kindling Wood/' 

Places where there had been houses on the road 
to Ypres were marked by ruined cellars. On the 
right hand and on the left the storm of battle had 
swept the landscape far and wide. But there, 
in the midst of all that sea of desolation, stood 
Woodcote Farm, a rock in the storm, and a 
covert from the tempest. 

Coming in from the Belgian chateau, across 
those wicked fields so pocked with shell-holes, 
one heard the warning whir of shells and rushed 
for that city of refuge. Battalions moving up to 
support, from the billets of Woodcote Farm, re- 
luctantly left its protecting rafters and, return- 
ing alive, they hailed it as good augury. 

5 65 



THE REAL FRONT 

On a high and windy plain in Hellas where the 
boisterous elements were forever sweeping, the 
ancient Greeks raised a Temple of the Winds. 

There, by that shell-swept Flemish road, I found 
my Temple of the Angels of Death. Through 
the creaking rafters at night one felt the rush of 
wind from passing shells. The hours of darkness 
were forever broken by the wail of Hun projec- 
tiles. By day the windows rattled, where the 
panes were long since broken, and the frame of 
the building was shaken by imminent concussion, 
while witb bated breath one waited for the next 
and for ruin. 

Strange to relate, that ruin never came. Itin- 
erant infantry- were billeted tbere but for 
the night, and their sleep was broken. They 
could not persuade themselves that the place 
would not soon be about their heads. "I'd 
sooner take my chances on the fire-step what- 
effer," said a canny Scot, as the quaking roof 
answered the crump of a 5.9 high explosive. 

For the artillery who lived there for months 
this precarious place had lost its dread. With 
them, as with dwellers beneath an avalanche, 
familiarity bred contempt. 

Our battery was in action there for a long 
period, and thus began my acquaiatance with the 
Temple of the Angels of Death. 



ANGELS OF DEATH 

It was in the season of the vernal equinox, 
long after nightfall, when I first went through to 
Woodcote Farm. A wild and untoward storm 
was sweeping the flat lands of Flanders, with 
tornadoes of lashing rain. To add to the horror 
of darkness, the Angels of Death were abroad 
that night. Over the fatal fields they flew in 
legions in the midst of the storm and the tempest. 

Two hours before, in the safe shelter of the 
Estaminet de Trois Amis the sergeant-major and 
I had stood like men. But now we ran and 
stumbled through the darkness with the sicken- 
ing dread of hunted beasts. All was well when 
we left the Park of Belgian Chateau. The inky 
gloom and the rain and the equinoxial gales were 
naught to us. Directing our steps by a luminous 
compass, the only way on such a night, we bent 
manfully against the storm . Shell-holes abounded ; 
here and there we floundered in lakes of water. 
Getting wet to the waist we did not mind. But 
the taciturnity of the sergeant-major gave way 
to violent expletive when he immersed himself in 
a Johnson-hole full flooded. 

At a moment when our discomfiture was 
completest we heard the note of the Angels of 
Death. Our feelings were like those of frontiers- 
men who suddenly hear in the depths of the wild 
the voice of pursuing wolves. The scream of the 

67 



THE REAL FRONT 

shells increased across that fatal meadow until 
they were raining down like the elements of the 
night. With a "crump" I heard them detonate 
against the ground, and with bated breath 
waited until with splash and patter the broken 
bits of steel and debris came falling back to 
earth. 

Twice flying pieces hit my shrapnel-helmet. 
It was just a touch, but nerves keyed to the 
highest pitch answered with instant trembling. 
How many times I had heard the voice of the 
shells in cold indifference! With the responsi- 
bility of attending to my men at the guns, or the 
keenness for my task at the observation post, I 
could almost spit at the Boche projectiles as 
they passed. But it was different in that lonely 
field. 

A busy mind in the midst of danger is at ease. 
But, oh, the agony of a mind at rest! I had 
naught but myself to think of, and I thought of 
every peril. As I lay on my stomach in a shell- 
hole I was a child again, and seeing things at 
night. What was that that whispered in my 
ear? My hand was tremulous as an aspen. 
There came upon me that loathsome sickening 
of fear, the vilest sickening man may know. I 
had heard the rustling wings of the Angels of 
Death, and with their breath they had breathed 



ANGELS OF DEATH 

upon me. In that one blanching moment I had 
known the call of Fate and of Eternity. 

There, wallowing in that shell-hole, for me. 
Life and Death had met together. Time and 
Eternity had kissed each other. Finite beings 
cannot have such sudden trystings with the In- 
finite without almost unbearable recoil. Imagi- 
nation, swift and winged, in that brief twinkling, 
took me far into the provinces of Death, and 
afterward my brow was wet with sweat that 
gathers on the brow of those who are afraid to 
go. 

What passed out there in the midst of the 
blackness of the storm on that awful field was 
a nightmare of nightmares for me. When at last 
I arrived at the haven of Woodcote Farm I was 
exhausted, not from battling the elements, but 
from battlings with the Spirit of Fear. 

By dim lantern-light at the door of my billet 
I gazed upon the face of Horror as I bade good 
night to him who was my companion across those 
stretches of inferno. If the sergeant-major sees 
these lines I doubt not that he will say with me 
that our approach to the Temple of the Angels 
of Death that night was made through the 
Valley of Fear. Whatever his opinion was re- 
quired no telling; it was written on his face. 
But in parting, my taciturn friend broke his 



THE REAL FRONT 

wonted silence and tersely observed, "In this 
here fightin' game it ain't the things ye see, it's 
what ye can't see, gets your wind-up!" 

My first night's sleep in Woodcote Farm was 
feverish and fitful. Like bloodhounds from hell, 
the Angels of Death pursued me in my dreams. 
With the swiftness of spirit I seemed to fly from 
danger, while they, yet ever swifter, seemed to 
follow. Often I woke with a start and, listening 
tensely, I always heard the whir of passing 
shells. The sight of the Angels of Death by day 
is fearsome enough, but the sound of their voices 
at the dead of night opens out for the imagina- 
tion boundless horizons of dread. 

Our guns were in action before the dawn. I 
walked behind our gun-pits with an emotion 
which I had never felt before. At the entrance 
to No. 1 gun some one had painted with grim 
irony, "Whizz Bang & Co., Wholesale and Re- 
tail Dealers in Death." 

As I flashed my electric torch upon that sign 
I realized how apt it was for such a business. 
Last night the German sub-lieutenant who di- 
rected the quick fire about my head was serenely 
oblivious to all the terrors that I was suffering. 
With him it was merely a mechanical task. 
He had his allotted time for bombardment, and he 
paced up and down, impatiently watching his 

70 



ANGELS OF DEATH 

wrist-watch, and when the time was up cried to 
the battery, "Stop!" and returned to his warm 
dugout as indifferently as the smithy returns 
from his forge. 

I myself had directed the fire of thousands of 
rounds in like manner. "It's all in the day's 
work," I used to say to myself; "a mechanical 
task to be done and nothing more." Standing 
behind the crashing breech-blocks, the ground 
shaking from the recoil, I gave little thought to 
what was happening at the other end of the 
business. 

Often I said to a parting shell, "I hope you 
kill a dozen Boche." But it was all a cold, 
impersonal thing. 

That morning I had a new experience. We 
were indeed wholesale and retail dealers in death, 
and, worse still, in those terrors that go before. 

I found myself regarding the bloody business 
in a new light. I saw the reeking gun-pits, and, 
standing at the entrance of the nearest one, I 
peered in. The place was full of smoke, the 
stench of burning cordite, and the pantings of 
the struggling gun crew. There was the crash 
of a breech-block, and a cry of "Ready!" with 
an answering cry of "Fire!" The ground shook 
from the concussion. The gun recoiled and, as it 
ran back from the recoil, the breech-block was 

71 



THE REAL FROXT 

swung open, and a lurid trail of backfire leaped 
into the gim-pit, diiclosing seven men stripped 
to the waist and toiling like the furies. This was 
one side of the shield, the vision behind the 
breech-block; but what of the side beyond? 

I never pictured that side before; but now, in 
imagination, I looked across the muzzles of oiu* 
guns five thousand yards away. There again I 
saw the Angels of Death, and I felt their breath, 
just as they had breathed upon me last night in 
those awful fields. 

Throughout all the long period of our stay at 
Woodcote Farm that place became ever more 
poignantly for me the Temple of the Angels of 
Death. 

One day I was coming along the road from 
Ypres in the midst of a grand bombardment from 
the Boche. A salvo of shrapnel burst immedi- 
ately above the road. I dived for the ditch and 
fell flat, hugging the earth with bated breath, 
while bidlets rattled on the cobbles of the road- 
way. 

Aiter the showers of shrapnel had ceased I 
hopped back into the road, on which two figures 
were reciunbent: one was an oflScer from a 
western Canadian regiment; the other was a 
trooper from the Ghirwalis, tribesmen from the 
hills of India. 



ANGELS OF DEATH 

I bent over the prostrate officer and found that 
he was dead. Approaching the Ghirwali trooper, 
I saw that he was on his knees, with head bowed 
against the earth, in that prostrate attitude as- 
sumed by Easterners in extreme devotion. He 
was not dead. He had seen the Angels of 
Death, and had fallen down before them. 

That Ghirwali trooper came from the East, the 
home of mystery; for him those winged projectiles 
of the air were something more than iron and 
steel. They spoke of something preternatural. 
They breathed on man in passing, and he who 
was a living being became as the clod and the 
earth. They touched that young officer who 
a moment before was pulsing, breathing, vital, 
and now he lay there, stark and still. Small 
wonder the tribesman from the East fell down 
before such fearsome power. 

The Angels of Death to which he bowed were 
made in the foundries of Essen, fashioned by the 
finite hand of man, but fraught with an infinite 
mission. Where the light of a thousand fur- 
nace fires made red the canopy of night these 
shells were fashioned, just as were fashioned spade 
and scythe. 

In the arsenals they lay inanimate and harm- 
less as any implement of peace. The stolid Ger- 
man watchman dozed beside them, just as he 

73 



THE REAL FRONT 

dozed in church on Sunday morning. Sight- 
seers at the arsenal moved through the long, 
dark aisles where those dread legions lay. But 
the sightseers saw only a sleek painted case of 
metal, a rounded nose, and a fuse of burnished 
brass. 

Once as the door was opened wade to let in 
high-born visitors the sunlight flashed across the 
row on row of burnished fuses, as on a field of 
shining spears. The German Emperor stood 
there in the doorway and his eyes gave back an 
answering flash. Here, on this foundry floor, he 
declared was the glory of Mars, for he, the 
Emperor, had seen it, with his saber clanking 
on the selfsame floor. A princeling of the royal 
house there caught a glimpse of Prussian eagles 
soaring, and over all an azure blue. The fair 
princess laughed, and her face was radiant as she 
exclaimed, "WTiat a thrilling sight!" Her little 
son clapped his hands with glee, and scampered 
off toward the "booful fings." 

Thousands of sightseers came and went, and 
high and low caught many visions as they gazed 
upon those rows of grim, upstanding shells. Vi- 
sions of w^ealth, of power, of glory, of renown, 
were kindled by that sight. But none saw there 
the Angels of Death. 

When the day of action came long trains 

74 



ANGELS OF DEATH 

rushed over every railroad with the shells. 
Swift motor-lorries bore them on to where the 
ammunition columns took them over, and with 
endless teams of horses struggled on through 
mud and fire and battle to the reeking mouths 
of the guns. 

For the artillery oflScer who received them in 
the gun-pits they were merely material things, 
to accomplish material tasks, to demolish fortifi- 
cations, to smash trenches, to hold up attacks, 
to blow up entanglements, to keep up barrages, 
or to knock out opposing guns. 

On that fateful July morning the German gun- 
ner held the shell in the hollow of his hand, and 
with the dexterity of a juggler tossed it over, 
caught it spinning, and slapped it in the breech. 
The laughing gun crew were all smiles that morn- 
ing at the sleight-of-hand work of their No. 3, 
while the sergeant's back was turned. The 
laugh caused by his horse-play mingled with the 
report of that fateful shot. 

Serene, indifferent of infinite tragedies beyond, 
the servants of the guns plied their roaring field- 
piece, and sang to themselves in the joy of the 
morning light. 

Over the road from Ypres the Angels of Death 
were loosed. That inanimate piece of steel, a 
moment before a juggler's ball, was now endued 

75 



THE REAL FRONT 

with divine prerogativ^e, to loose the cord of 
life. 

While I crouched breathless in a ditch beside 
me on that Flemish road, that long-time harmless 
piece of metal, which so many human hands had 
touched, there snatched away a power of God 
and closed a human life forever. 

As I gazed upon the white and vacant stare 
which a moment before was radiance and youth, 
I entered into the tragic secret of the Angels of 
Death. The fallen officer came from the far 
west of Canada, but on that road from Ypres his 
journey ings had ended. Nevermore would he 
see the sunlight on his prairies, the shadows of 
the foot-hills, or the white peaks of the Rockies. 

The Ghirwali trooper remained long prostrate, 
in an attitude of supplication. I did not wonder. 
I understood his emotion. With the mystic eyes 
of the East he, too, had pierced beyond the seen 
into that infinite and everlasting empire of the 
Angels of Death. 



THE REAL FRONT 

TT was at that hour of the night when the dark- 
-'' ness was deepest and the sentries were keen- 
est. I had been up on the front hne for "Stand 
to." Never did that front line seem to be 
wrapped in peace more profound. Naught could 
be seen but the inky blackness, broken momen- 
tarily by the flight of a star-shell which silhouetted 
a grim line of figures with fixed bayonets waiting 
on the parapet. Darkness returned, and in the 
utter gloom I groped my way and shivered, 
not from the chill night winds, but from those 
apprehensive high-tensed nerves that, like a wire- 
less coherer, seemed to catch the far-off waves of 
something stirring in the night. 

In the flash of the star-shell I had seen the 
glint of the bayonets and a momentary adum- 
bration of that living wall that stands between 
our country and the foe. What if that living 
wall should break? In the vastness of the night 
it seemed so frail and so all-encompassed. 

77 



THE REAL FRONT 

I climbed up on the parapet between two 
sentries; both were peering intently through the 
gloom. 

"All quiet on the front to-night?" I inquired. 

"All quiet for the moment, sir," came the 
answer. 

Like one on the shore of a soundless sea, I 
gazed into the void of Xo Man's Land. Again 
those preternatural nerves, taut as a violin-string, 
seemed to catch the premonitions of a coming 
storm. 

"Keep a sharp lookout," I whispered to the 
sentry. "It may be superstition on my part, but 
I feel certain that hell's going to pop to-night." 

"I think you're right, sir," said the sentry. 
"It feels a bit queer to me just now." 

For some time I lingered in the fire-trench. 
But the unbroken calm remained. Glancing at 
my wrist-watch, I saw that the hour of the dawn 
was approaching, and I wended my way down 
the communicating trench into the supports 
where my dugout was situated. 

I was forward observing officer for the artillery, 
whose duty it was to keep the guns in touch 
with the front line. My signalers and linemen 
were all asleep except the man on duty, who sat 
under a candle-light, with the 'phone strapped 
to his ears, his fingers on the telegraph-key, 

78 



THE REAL FRONT 

"Any message from the battery?" I inquired. 

"No, sir. No word," came the reply. 

Outside, the soft wind was crooning a slumber 
song. I stretched myself and was preparing for 
the luxury of sleep when there came a wail like 
a lost soul through the night. It ended with a 
shriek and a sickening thud, and with a roar 
our dugout was shaken as though by an earth- 
quake. We were old-timers, the telephonist and 
I. "That's a Minnie!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes, sir; and rather close, too," ventured the 
cold-blooded signaler. 

I jumped out into the trench and listened. 
The air was thick with the voice of Minnie. 
Now if there was anything I loathed, it was a 
Minnie's strafe. Minnie is short for Minnie- 
whuff er, which is a hundred-pound trench mortar 
used by the Boche. In a lecture at a school be- 
hind the lines I once heard an officer refer to the 
Minnie as a "great bluffer," but she has a great 
moral effect, he continued. 

The despicable IViinnie has more terror-arous- 
ing qualities than any other form of ordnance 
with which I am acquainted. The disgusting 
part of it is that it is so primitive. Silent Lizzies, 
which are heard after they have passed, are 
worthy of respect because of their speed, but to 
be killed by a Minnie seemed as ignominious as 

79 



THE REAL FRONT 

being run over by a hearse. Primitive as Minnie 
is, we must give her her due — she can give one 
the worst attack of "wind-up," which is trench 
vernacular for fear, of anything I know. One 
at a time in the air is not bad; you can at least 
make a bid at dodging. But when the air is 
ahum with a half a score of Minnies at once, to 
dodge one means to run amuck into another. 

Wlien a Minnie lands, there will straightway 
be a hole big enough for a farm-house cellar. 
One does not care to share his standing-room with 
Minnie. Those who go into partnership with 
this bomb are lucky if they leave behind a piece 
of an ear and a shin-bone. 

While I contemplated hell popping in the front 
line the telephonist exclaimed, *' Adjutant wants 
you at battalion headquarters, sir." 

A minute's run down the trench brought me to 
battalion headquarters. It was a great, deep 
dugout, with an excessive overhead protection, 
toward which telephone-wires converged from 
all parts of the trench. Inside, the colonel sat 
at a telephone, making frantic inquiries of com- 
pany commanders as to demoralizing conditions 
in the front line. 

"Do you want some retaliation.^" I inquired of 
the adjutant. 

"No, we will not give them any heavy stuff. 

80 



THE REAL FRONT 

I think that our trench mortars and stokes guns 
can handle 'em, but I want you to go up front 
and get a line on some of Fritz's trench mortars." 

"Thanks," said I. "There's no place I'd 
sooner not be than in the front line when Minnies 
are coming over. But if we can only get the 
satisfaction of pounding a few of these mean 
things to smithereens with an honest God-fearing 
field-gun I'll be happy." 

Like a rat I began to dodge my way up the 
communicating trench. Once a bomb landed 
just outside the trench. I was bowled over by 
the concussion and covered with dirt, but on 
picking myself up found no harm done, and pro- 
ceeded. A little farther I encountered several 
successive craters and met a figure retreating 
hastily. 

"Beat it out of here. Quick! Fritz's got a 
dead line on this communicating trench!" he 
exclaimed. 

I leaped to follow his advice. "Rat Alley" 
being out of use, there remained another way up 
front for me through "Petticoat Lane." Grop- 
ing my way along "Petticoat Lane," I arrived in 
the fire-trench, which at that time was the real 
front. 

One might visit the fire-trench many times and 
yet never see the real front. The real front is 

6 81 



THE REAL FRONT 

the battle front, whicli comes and goes. Like 
Vesuvius, it may burst into eruption, and then 
for long remain the crater of a dead volcano. 
Now and again one meets with a war correspond- 
ent who has been "at the front." But being at 
the front on a quiet day is quite different from 
being at the front in midst of battle. To have 
been in Pompeii as it lay in the peace and calm 
of its ruins is one thing. To have been in the 
fateful city on the night that the living lava 
swept its streets is quite another experience. 
And so it is with the real front. 

As a war correspondent I visited the Chatalja 
lines in 1913. I remember with what a thrill I 
gazed from the St. George's redoubt toward the 
Bulgarian trenches, preening myself that I was 
gazing upon a true battle line. But I might as 
well have been in Chickapee Falls on Sunday 
morning, for all the stir of battle that was there 
that day. 

I returned to Constantinople elated with the 
idea that I had been at the front. My first ex- 
perience in the trenches in France was equally 
uneventful, and with immense satisfaction I re- 
tm-ned to our billets behind Bethune, quite cer- 
tain that I did not dislike war. 

"Why, there's nothing to dread in the war 
game," I announced, grandly, on our first night 

82 



THE REAL FRONT 

out. "I've been at the front in the Balkans, 
and now in France, and I surprise myself at how 
little of a coward I really am." 

That was before I had ever seen the real front. 
One day that quiescent volcano on which I had 
been dwelling suddenly burst into eruption. 
Out of the trembling earth and the belching fire 
and smoke I found that I still was human. My 
tongue went dry and my knees knocked together, 
and I found that the real front was a place of 
mortal terror. My young friend, Bobby Kerr, 
sat beside me on the fire-step, struggling to keep 
up a nonchalant appearance. Despite his ef- 
forts, a pallor crept across his face, preciu*sor of 
that chill hand of death that even then was 
reaching out to find him. 

"It was only a little strafe," I heard a seasoned 
sergeant say later. But that "little strafe" gave 
me a glimpse of the real front, which I often saw 
thereafter, and which I always dreaded and 
always hated. That night when the rations 
came up I saw the limp, fair-haired body of 
Bobby Kerr placed on the trolley that brought 
up the rations. A friend whom I loved was gone, 
and the iron of the real front had entered into my 
soul. 

As I rushed out of "Petticoat Lane" into the 
bay of the fire-trench I caught a glimpse of the 

83 



THE REAL FRONT 

real front. Eluminated by the incessant flight of 
star-shells, I saw the men, like hunted beasts, 
mo\ang up and down in frantic efforts to escape 
the Minniewhuffer bombs. A tall subaltern stood 
at the end of the bay directing his men. They 
were all outside, as there was no protection in the 
dugout from Minnie. 

"For God's sake, string out there, men, and 
don't bunch together," yelled the officer. But 
his order was too late. Into the midst of a panic- 
stricken human mass lobbed one of the hundred- 
pound bombs. I closed my eyes on the horrible 
scene that ensued. Out of all that mass only 
three remained alive, and, groaning and man- 
gled, they were hurried down the trench by the 
stretcher-bearers. 

Back at the gims, through the long perspective, 
we could look upon the front line with its leaping 
lightning as an alluring and thrilling sight. But 
up there in the fire-trench that night the glory 
of war was gone. The air was filled with the 
eternal note of oncoming bombs. In the inky 
darkness one knew not which way to turn. If 
he prepared to jump to avoid one IVIinnie, in 
stark terror he heard another coming. Every- 
thing tended to produce a panic in the soul. 
Blind and insensate were the forces against 
us; brain and skill were of no avail. 

84 



TH^E REAL FRONT 

Standing on the fire-sill I found Captain Rush, 
the company commander, peering eagerly across 
the parapet. I climbed beside him, but he 
seemed too preoccupied at first to notice me. 
*'Have you got a line on something?'* I inquired. 

"Why, you're the gunner officer!" he ex- 
claimed. "You're just in time. I'll point you 
out the most cursed target that you'll ever have 
the happiness of shooting up. I've got a line 
on a trench-mortar battery over there." 

As he spoke I caught the flash from the direc- 
tion in which he pointed. I was engrossed in 
taking a bearing of the direction of the flash with 
a magnetic compass when the bomb came lobbing 
just above our heads. Instinctively I ducked, 
and, as I did so, in the glare of a Verey light I 
saw a Highlander stand forth behind me. Flashed 
upon the screen of my mind for a moment the 
picture of that Highlander remains for all time. 
In the explosion of the bomb he was blotted out, 
and where he stood there was a gaping crater 
gouged up from the earth. When the smoke 
and fire had cleared away I rushed to the spot to 
render needed succor, but the last trace of the 
Highlander was gone forever. Next day, 
prompted by a special curiosity, I descended into 
that gaping hole in the earth and ransacked the 

spot, but a strip of plaid from a kiltie, and a red 

85 



THE REAL FRONT 

ribbon worn on the tartan sock were all that I 
could find. Ptolemys and Rameses, the lE^gyp- 
tian Pharaohs, lived thousands of years ago, and 
their physical semblances still remain. But the 
ffighlander in the twinkling of an eye passed 
from the seen to the unseen, and by the diaboHc 
power of ^Minnie his every vestige was scattered 
to the elements. Small wonder that we have a 
mortal fear of ^linniewhuffers. 

I climbed on the sill of the fire-trench again by 
Captain Rush, feeling nauseated by the incident 
of the Highlander. Beside me I heard Rush 
call down his curse on the IMimiie, and his 
wrath enkindled mine, and I almost prayed for 
another flash to disclose the position of the 
trench mortar. A long, fruitless wait followed, 
with no more telltale flashes in the expected 
direction. 

Up the trench a short distance the parapet had 
been smashed in in several places, and Fritz 
kept raining his bombs on that one spot. "I 
must take a look at the hell Fritz's raising up the 
way," I said to Captain Rush. "So long. Cap." 

"Cheeroh, old top!" he answered. And I left 
him at his post of observation. A few moments 
later I saw him carried out of trench, his leg 
and hip smashed to pulp, and the next night in 
the clearing-station at Poperinghe he "went 

86 



THE REAL FRONT 

west" without ever having regained conscious- 
ness. 

Dawn breaking over the war-saddened land- 
scape foimd the Minnie strafe developing into a 
general engagement. Bombardier Mackinley, a 
trusty signalman, stood beside me, with a tele- 
phone which he had attached to wires com- 
municating with our dugout in the rear, and 
from there to the guns. It required the con- 
stant attention of two linemen to keep up com- 
munications, as the wires were being constantly 
broken by shell-fire. 

Just as the dawn was breaking the Boche 
turned on his artillery upon us with sudden and 
intense fire. Our parapet, already crumped in 
in several places, was now being smashed to 
pieces and great geysers from exploding shells 
shot up from the trenches. A dugout near by 
was smashed in like a house of cards. That dug- 
out was the company headquarters of the front 
line. "The cap'n's in .there, boys!" a sergeant 
exclaimed aghast, and, forgetting all thought of 
self, he rushed to exhume the company com- 
mander. 

The bombardment Increased until one won- 
dered that any living being remained in our front 
line. This was undoubtedly the prelude to a 
Boche attack. At any moment now the barrage 

87 



THE REAL FRONT 

might lift and we should see Fritz coming over. 
The time had come for that cry which the front 
line sends down only in direst extremity. Pick- 
ing up the telegraph-key, I ticked away in a 
frenzy: dot, dot, dot — dash, dash, dash — dot, 
dot, dot. Again and again I repeated the signal, 
which was the SOS, the cry for help from the 
front line. Bombardier Mackinley, hearing the 
signal, produced an S O S rocket from his 
pocket and fired it from a pistol. A long trail of 
blue-and-crimson light shot up into the sky. 

My first task was done. I saw Bombardier 
Mackinley hastily fixing a bayonet to the end of a 
rifle. The bombardier expected his last minute 
soon, and he intended to sell his life dearly. 
For a moment of awful suspense I waited, gazing 
through the twilight mists of No Man's Land. 
Across the waste country Fritz's front parapet 
could just be discerned in the uncertain morning 
light. Suddenly the enemy barrage lifted, and 
over the top of the enemy parapet appeared a 
dim mass of leaping figures. 

"They're coming, Mackinley!" I shouted, and 
instantaneously I heard the first whir in answer 
to our SOS. One battery was in action, and 
one after another the others joined in. Before 
five minutes had elapsed nearly a thousand guns 
had taken up the note in answer to our cry for 

88 



THE REAL FRONT 

help. The air above our heads was humming to 
constant whir of shells as they passed across 
toward the enemy's parapet. 

That living wall of^Germans advancing to the 
attack was caught fairly and unawares in the 
midst of No Man's Land. Down they went like 
so much standing corn, and a wounded handful 
only were able to drag themselves back into the 
safety of their trenches. 

For nearly an hour our guns continued to 
bombard the enemy's front line, while they re- 
plied in kind on our trenches. An artillery duel 
like this may be good sport for the gunners, but 
it's a living hell for the poor boys in the trenches. 
Like so many rats they are herded together, 
crouching under the storm, and praying that it 
may soon pass. To be in the front line when the 
infantry are under a bombardment is to under- 
stand why the infantry deserve the greatest 
glory of this war. Beyond the cavalry and ar- 
tillery and all other arms of the service, theirs 
is the major price of sacrifice both in attack and 
in defense. 

An hour after the dawn the enemy were 
thoroughly sick of the hell which they had started. 
For some time their guns were silent. Our bat- 
teries continued slow fire for the sake of having 
the last word, and then one by one they ceased, 

89 



THE REAL FRONT 

until only a faint whirring here and there re- 
mained of that tremendous symphony that 
answered the SOS. 

A message from battalion headquarters brought 
the assurance that the situation was completely 
in hand. This message was transmitted to the 
battery in the rear. Soon a calm as profound as 
a Sabbath day reigned on both sides. Our front 
line was smashed in several places. In one spot 
where the enemy fire had concentrated, the 
parapet was razed for a distance of ten yards. 
But, looking across through my periscope, I. was 
rejoiced to see that Fritz's parapet had suffered 
far worse than ours. 

Out in No Man's Land the ground was gray 
with the bodies of dead Germans who had been 
mowed down by our machine-guns and artillery. 
In a strong redoubt just opposite, broken beams, 
twisted rails, and sheets of corrugated iron bore 
•witness to the effectiveness of our howitzer-fire. 
The registration on this spot had been perfect. 
In the words of Bombardier Mackinley, "We 
put that happy home on the blink for fair." 

Stretcher-bearers were now busy carrying back 
the wounded to the first-aid dressing-station 
situated in support trenches. Here they would 
lie all day, until, under cover of darkness, they 
would be placed on trolleys drawn by horses two 

90 



THE REAL FRONT 

miles back to where the field ambulance would 
pick them up and run them to the clearing- 
station. 

The dead lay in the trenches all day. At 
night they would be buried by working parties 
of pioneers. As I left the fire-trench it had 
changed again from the real front to a place of 
rustic peace. True, the shell-holes abounded, 
but there was no sound of strife. It was a sum- 
mer morning. High up in the blue an aeroplane 
was humming to the sun. Along the side of 
communicating trenches the green grass was 
growing. Here and there tall daisies waved their 
heads, and buttercups and crimson poppies grew. 

At our dugout I found that two of the line- 
men engaged in mending wires had been wounded. 
They had gone to the dressing-station and the 
others were busy preparing breakfast. The reg- 
ular routine of the trenches had begun again and, 
despite the hell of an hour before, life had re- 
sumed the calm and normal round of a village 
at home. 

The springing of a mine is one of the most 
deadly and insidious forms of attack in this 
present war. It is a fruitful cause of nerves to 
all those who are engaged in it. Working down 
into the earth in total darkness, often right under 
the enemy position, never knowing at what mo- 

91 



THE REAL FRONT 

ment discovery may come, and death from bomb- 
ing or, worse still, from being buried alive, it is 
no wonder that those who are mining or counter- 
mining are subject to attacks of nerves. 

I knew an officer who while in the infantry was 
noted for his sang-froid. He had been in the 
Yukon gold rush, and later through a troublous 
career in Mexico. One of his men, referring to 
him, said, "Cap'n's been at the fightin' game so 
long that he thinks that they can't make a bullet 
to hit him." 

After he had been with a mining company for 
a month this devil-may-care adventurer was as 
shaky as an old woman. "It's that workin' down 
in the dark and waiting for the foe that you can 
never see that gets a chap," he said. 

If a premonition has been given just before a 
mine goes up, the feeling of suspense in the front 
line is like that on board a doomed ship. The 
order is given to abandon the trench, and in 
their frenzy every man rushes for safety in the 
rear. But not every man can leave. Sentries 
must still man the parapet; they remain at the 
post of duty till death. The chaps who did the 
Birkenhead drill, or the sentry who stood to his 
post in Pompeii have nothing on the sentry on 
the front line who stands by his post of duty 
while the mine is being sprung under his feet. 

92 



THE REAL FRONT 

On one occasion we were abandoning a trench 
where the explosion of a mine was imminent; 
it was pitch dark and the night was perfectly quiet 
when there came the dread premonition of a 
mine. The order was given for all except the 
sentries to retire, and in a panic of fear I rushed 
to the communicating trench. 

There flashed before me the momentary pic- 
ture of a sentry, at his post of duty, standing on 
the rim of the fire-trench, with fixed bayonet, 
firm and imperturable, gazing into the gloom of 
No Man's Land. Under his feet were the rock- 
ings of an earthquake that soon should engulf 
him. But though the earth were removed, his 
duty remained, and he as a soldier stood firm. 
A few moments later in the midst of a reverber- 
ating roar he went up with the mine. The 
momentary and flashing glimpse of that gallant 
sentry remains for me my most heroic, soul-en- 
kindling memory of two years of war. 

Sometimes in the springing of a mine no warn- 
ing whatever is given. With a roar that is heard 
for a hundred miles or more, the bowels of the 
earth burst forth and whole regiments are swept 
away. Human beings and trenches alike are 
tossed as from a giant geyser in a soaring flood of 
fire and smoke and debris. 

I saw a mine like this sprung without warning 



THE REAL FRONT 

on the Third Canadian Division. My division, 
the First Canadians, were holding trenches just 
in front of Hill 60, at Ypres. The Third Division 
was on our left. It was about eight o'clock on a 
beautiful June morning, a profound peace was 
reigning, when, without the slightest warning, 
there came a deep roar such as I had never heard 
before, and the trenches to our left were literally 
swept hundreds of feet into the air. In this aw- 
ful mine perished Major-General Mercer, C.B., 
and the flower of the Third Canadian Division. 
So out of peace profound, by the springing of a 
mine, the worst aspect of the real front may 
suddenly reveal itself. 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

TORD NORTHCLIFFE says that next to the 
-'^ war, the newspaper game is the greatest 
game in the world. Fleet Street, the newspaper 
row of London, is known among press men as 
the "Street of Adventm-e." 

The front-line trench is the Street of Adventure 
for the greatest game in the world. All the 
thrills and joys of Fleet Street grow pale before 
the excitements that crowd one another along 
that ultimate thoroughfare of battle. 

"There's something happening inside the big 
tent here every minute," said a western Cana- 
dian. In my experience I never found many dull 
moments in the front line. In supports, in billets, 
or at the guns, time might hang heavy, but not so 
in the fire-trench. 

The place which we describe by that much- 
used phrase, "the front line," is the last line of 
defense that stands between us and the foe. 
In America the domain of democracy seems vast 

95 



THE REAL FRONT 

indeed. But the firing-line is democracy's last 
frontier. If that thin line should break, au- 
tocracy would replace liberty, and ci\'ilization be 
swallowed up in barbarism. 

If one were to ascend in an aeroplane above 
the fighting-area, he would see that the ground 
for a great distance on both sides is made 
up of a network of trenches, extending 
back sometimes to a distance of half a mile or 
more. 

All this area may be called trenches, but the 
real Street of Adventure is the front hne. That 
is where the tide of battle on both sides finally 
froze and held. 

The question is often raised, "Why is the firing- 
line laid out in such and such a position.^ Why 
are opposite trenches fifty yards apart at one 
place, and several hundred yards apart at an- 
other? This was determined by the exigencies of 
battle. In the beginning the two armies faced 
each other in the open and the tide of battle 
shifted back and forth. Then one side dug in, 
and held. And the other side was forced to dig 
in also; thus the trenches began. 

One approaches through the communicating 
trenches, winding in and out of circuitous lanes, 
ever biunping his steel helmet against the trav- 
erses, and losing himself in labyrinthine passages, 

d6 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

until at last he bursts out with relief into that 
momentous place, the front line. 

A parapet of sand-bags and dirt rises to a 
height of seven feet against the sky. The fire- 
step is dug along the side of the parapet. Here 
the sentry mounts on guard, and here the soldiers 
stand with fixed bayonets when the parapets are 
manned. 

The parapets are manned just after dusk at 
night, and just before the dawn in the morning. 
These are two very critical periods in the trenches, 
and are regarded as especially liable to sudden 
attack from the enemy. These periods are re- 
ferred to as from "stand to" to "stand down." 

Along the ground in the front line is laid a 
narrow walk of short boards. These boards are 
known as the " bath-mats." " Hugging the bath- 
mats," a common phrase in the trenches, means 
lying down on your belly while the shells are go- 
ing overhead. 

The first night I went into the trenches I was 
greeted by a cockney who exclaimed, "01 soiy, 
ole sport, 'ow tall are you.^" 

"Six feet three," I answered. 

"Well, oi'll give you abawt fifteen minutes up 

front," he announced, optimistically. "Moi 

mate was a bally long bloke, jist the same as 

yerself. 'E comes in one blinkin' night at six 
7 97 



THE REAL FRONT 

o'clock, an' Fritz copped 'im before seven, right 
in the 'ead it were. 'E was dead as a door-nail. 
You're jist 'is size, you are." 

In deference to this first greeting, I immedi- 
ately learned how to "hug the bath-mats" at the 
slightest provocation. 

On quiet days one may move up and down the 
front line with the utmost freedom. Indeed, on 
a sunny morning, walking up and down the nar- 
row board walk, the peace is often equal to what 
you would find in your own back garden. But a 
figure regarding a mirror fixed at the end of a 
bayonet, or an officer gazing through a periscope, 
reminds one that the board walk is laid on epic 
ground. At any minute this spot may become 
the storm center of battle. Regarded in this 
setting, the dirt-covered figm-es lounging along 
the fire-step become Homeric in their significance. 

By night the front-line trench presents a spec- 
tacular display before which Coney Island w^ould 
grow pale. For miles the firing-line is dis- 
cernible by magnesium flares and star-shells that 
are forever rising in the darkness. A quiet night 
means few flares. But a raid, the springing of a 
mine, or a sudden bombardment, means a perfect 
cloudburst of pyrotechnics. At night on our 
Street of Adventme we can not only hear the 
battle with our ears, we can see it with oiu- eyes. 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

Many pictures have attempted to portray a 
battle on the firing-line at night. But they can 
only give a faint conception. Thousands of 
rockets trace their lui^id way across the blackness. 
Innumerable magnesium flares unroll like ribbons 
of silver across the sky; with iridescent whiteness 
the star-shells burst above the lines, while SOS 
rockets, red, and blue, and yellow, and green, 
add an awful touch of color to the scene. SOS 
rockets mean a human cry translated into colored 
light and flashed across the night. 

Life on the firing-line is not, as some suppose, 
a round of endless fighting. Trench warfare, the 
same as the open warfare, is a series of battles 
interspersed with periods of calm. 

Often the calm is deepest just before the storm. 
The darkness of the night may enfold the battle- 
front with no sound but the whispering winds, 
and no sight but the twinkling stars. The mind 
of the sentry, from the mood of the hour, may be 
lost in thoughts of home and love. Suddenly, 
without any warning, the profound peace of the 
night is broken. There is a muffled rumbling, 
followed by a reverberating roar, and where a 
moment before there was a peaceful trench a 
ghastly crater now yawns, out of which come fire 
and smoke and the groans of dying men. 

The enemy have sprung a mine, the most 



THE REAL FRONT 

deadly and insidious form of attack in modern 
warfare. There is a wide open gap in our de- 
fense. The men on the right and left flanks of 
the crater are dazed from the concussion. In a 
moment the foe will be at hand, with bombs and 
bayonets, to occupy the crater. 

An officer whose nerves have been so shattered 
by the shock that his whole frame shakes, fires a 
rocket with trembling and uncertain hand. Far 
up through the night soars a long trail of blue- 
and-crimson light. Down the trench some one 
has sent another. This is the SOS signal, the 
cry for help from the front line to the guns in 
the rear. Behind at each battery are the SOS 
sentries straining their eyes through the darkness, 
waiting for this signal. 

The appearance of this rocket is for them as 
the stroke of the alarm for the fireman. A mo- 
ment before all at the battery were sleeping 
soundly; only the march of the sentry was heard. 
Now a voice cries, "S O S! Battery action!" 
and out of the dugouts or the pits where they 
sleep the gun crews leap to their appointed place. 

By night or by day the guns are always laid 
on permanent lines, known as S O S targets, 
vulnerable spots of the enemy to be bombarded in 
an emergency. 

Down in the gun-pit there is a rush of figures, 

100 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

the crash of a breech-block, a muffled order, and 
the lightning leaps from the mouth of a gun. In 
one minute twenty rounds have been fired, and 
from far and near the night awakens to unbroken 
thunder, as a thousand other guns take up the 
note. 

A few moments later at divisional headquarters 
a general in summery attire gasps, "Thank God!" 
as the group artillery commander informs him 
that "The barrage of our guns held up the enemy 
while our infantry were able to occupy the 
crater and consolidate." 

Up in the front-line trench a company com- 
mander, encountering the forward observing of- 
ficer of the artillery, exclaims: "We've got to 
hand it to your boys down behind at the guns. 
They're on their job down there, all right." 

A quick reply to an S O S cry for help from 
the artillery is an eloquent testimony to the 
efficiency and spirit of the crews who serve the 
guns. Such action as this calls for the finest team 
work; each man has his exact place and in- 
stinctively at the alarm he leaps to his post and 
with utmost speed and precision performs his 
appointed task. A football team might watch 
with envy the accuracy and lightning speed with 
which each man goes through his movement and 
the perfect combination of the total crew. They 

101 



THE REAL FRONT 

go through the different tasks with the regularity 
of clockwork; only their perspiring faces and 
their pantings for breath remind one that they 
are not mere machines. 

No matter how quiet the day or night, there is 
always an air of imminency and expectancy in 
the fire-trench. On this front-line Street of 
Adventure one meets the truest men of his time. 
There there is a real democracy and a real 
brotherhood. The mere fact that each is there 
demands respect from the other. 

The purest form of democracy we find exist- 
ing in the front line. It is like that of Main 
Street in a country town. Everybody knows 
everybody, and we are all interested in the 
others' affairs — that is, in quiet times. Of course 
the chief interest during a fight is to kill a Fritz 
or to save your skin. 

I remember one morning meeting a high general 
walking along in the bay of a fire-trench. As I 
saluted him he smiled and exclaimed, cordially: 
"Good morning, my boy! It's a beautiful morn- 
ing. How is everything up here with you?" 

For all the rest of that day I went about with a 
smile upon my face and happiness within be- 
cause such a high general had spoken to me. It 
didn't mean much to the general, but it held a 
world of joy for a mere artillery subaltern. This 

102 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

fine courtesy is one of the charming characteristics 
of any true British officer. And sometimes it 
seems to me that it is more developed in officers 
of highest rank. 

Among my priceless memories of the real front 
is that of junior headquarters mess in the line. 
Among ourselves we often referred to this mess 
as the "Finest Club in the World," and its young 
members have perhaps made a good bid for the 
title. 

The headquarters mess includes the colonel, 
adjutant, medical officer, and chaplain, if he is 
forward. They mess at battalion headquarters, 
which is a becomingly staid place. 

The junior headquarters mess includes the 
scout officer, machine-gun officer, bombing officer, 
trench-mortar officer, intelligence officer, and 
sometimes the forward observing officer. Mem- 
bership in this, the Finest Club in the World, is 
not apt to be of long duration, as its members 
frequently "go west." During the period of 
their active membership they represent many 
of the stars on the stage of the world war. Of 
course the generals* names are splashed across the 
billboards. But we who have really been there 
know that these mere boys are the leading actors 
on the stage. Generals may direct the scenery, 
but it is for the junior officers to carry out the 

103 



THE REAL FRONT 

drama. Hence the saying, "This is a subalterns* 
war." 

In a consequential club not long ago I was 
toted around by a friend who pointed out to me 
"men of real importance in the world to-day." 
Let me point out to you in the dugout of the 
Suicide Club several young men of real impor- 
tance on the real front. 

It is about the hoiu* of two in the morning, or 
2 ack emma, as we say it in the trenches, ack 
emma standing for a.m. The group are gathered 
around a table of rough boards on which several 
gutted candles are burning. The dugout is deep 
and full of shadow, but the light around the 
table shows a group with ruddy faces and 
sparkling eyes. The intelligence officer, known 
as "Brains," has received a box of cigars from 
home, and, true to the conmiunistic instinct of 
the front line, he has tm-ned them over to the 
crowd. 

"This is a little bit of orl right," said Walker, 
the fau'-haired, blue-eyed scout officer. He was 
the most boyish of them all. It seemed like a 
joke to see such a stripling smoking such a big 
cigar. 

"Go easy on that cheroot, cherub, or another 
mother's darling will be missing," jeered Bobby 
Cameron, tlie machine-gun officer. Walker's 

104 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

answer was to half-close his bright blue eyes and 
to send a cloud of smoke rings curling up into 
the shadows. A half an hour before this un- 
sophisticated youth, with never a care in the 
world, was on the other side of No Man's Land, 
with his ear against the German parapet, listen- 
ing to the Fritzes talking in their own trenches. 
On his breast Walker wore the ribbon of the 
D. S. O. and of the military cross. He was one 
of the pioneers of raiding, an originator of a new 
departure in trench warfare. 

Walker was only a boy in appearance, but into 
his life already he had crowded the thrilling 
experiences of many men. There was a day 
when the waste land between the trenches was a 
forbidden and inscrutable country. Walker and 
some of his friends did an unheard-of thing — 
they raided the German trenches one night, caus- 
ing a panic, and brought back many prisoners. 
Since then, thanks to the innovation of Walker 
and his friends, raids have become the regular 
order of the day. 

When Fritz knew that Walker's battalion was 
holding the opposite line he respectfully remained 
in his own trenches. As Corporal Dawson put 
it, "The Boche don't show his peek-a-boo beyond 
his own wire when our chaps is in front of them." 

105 



THE REAL FRONT 

Walker's battalion were known as the "Kings 
of No Man's Land," and to watch the non- 
chalance with which this fair-haired lad and his 
scouts disappeared over the parapet in a dark 
night was to understand the meaning of the 
phrase. Out in the dread country between the 
trenches they held undisputed sway, indeed under 
them the name of No Man's Land had been 
changed to the "Dominion of Canada." 

Just outside of the dugout of the Suicide Club 
the voice of Andy Morrison, the bombing of- 
ficer, was heard. "What are you taking over 
with you on the raid to-night. Leery — a re- 
volver.^" 

"I'm taking a two-pound hammer," answered 
the strident voice of Leery. 

"And an awful man he is with that hammer," 
laughed Walker. "He must have been a black- 
jacker or a butcher's assistant in civil life." 

"I don't know myself if it isn't the best weapon 
in a rough-and-tumble fight," declared Bobby 
Cameron. "When the Boche were thick around 
my machine-gun at St.-Julien, it was that big 
corporal of mine with a piece of lead pipe that 
swept the decks clean." 

Andy Morrison then jumped down into the 
dugout. Morrison was the inventor of the 
phrase "Bombers have a cat-in-hell chance of 

106 



ON OUR STREET OF ADVENTURE 

seeing their second month in the line." But 
despite this gloomy prophecy he had seen many 
months in the line, and had passed unscathed. 
He began as a bombing officer in the days when 
for bombs we filled jam-tins with amatol. These 
primitive grenades, called Tickler's artillery, after 
Tickler's jam-tins, were often more devilish to 
ourselves than to our foe. With the perfection of 
the Mills bomb, Morrison announced that life for 
him was almost becoming humdrmn. 

I shall not introduce you to all the interesting 
ones in the Suicide Club that night, but Bobby 
Cameron is one whom you must remember. 
Bobby was always twitting Walker about his 
youth, yet he was not quite a month older than 
the scout officer. These two juveniles were often 
referred to as the heavenly twins. Bobby, 
though young in years, was the oldest of the 
old-timers. He had been on the line since the 
beginning, and was the coolest, nerviest chap 
that I had encountered. He has long since 
"gone west," winning the Victoria Cross in his 
passing. But his memory is bright with all old- 
timers. 

The intelligence officer, known as "Brains," 
is supposed to be the vade-mecum of all knowl- 
edge in the front line. If any information is re- 
quired, the answer invariably is, "Ask Brains." 

107 



THE REAL FRONT 

The trench-mortar oflScer, and the bombmg of- 
ficer, hold two very unwholesome jobs, which, 
strange to relate, are much sought after. As 
Andy Morrison, of the bombers, cheerfully ob- 
served, "Our chances of sprouting daisies are 
always of the best." 

The most sought-after positions at the front 
are not the safe and easy places, but the tasks 
of greatest danger. WTien one man will apply 
for the post as inspector of supplies at the base, 
a hundred will volunteer for the bombers or 
trench mortars. 

An air of suppressed merriment pervades the 
dugout of the Suicide Club and there is always 
a bubbling over into laughter. A crowd of ir- 
repressibles in the dormitory of a boys' school 
are the nearest approach to this group in the 
junior headquarters mess, only the dormitory does 
not possess such a uniform exuberance of spirit. 

In spite of all the hardships and all the dangers 
along our front-line Street of Adventure, it is 
always a place of happiness. Each man is 
blessed by that deep calm that comes alone to 
those who are doing their duty. Others at home 
in places of ease may worry and fret, but these 
men who are doing their duty to the full may 
greet the darkest future undismayed and with a 
cheer. 

108 



ON OUR STREET OP ADVENTURE 

A man at the front who started out to take it 
seriously would be in the madhouse in less than 
a month. But the light-hearted ones, escaping 
Minnies and Lizzies, may go on indefinitely. 
The successful soldier of the trenches never loses 
an opportunity for happiness. He often de- 
velops into a more care-free, merry lad than 
he was at school ten years before. The light 
heart in the midst of danger and tribulation is 
our last invincible defense. 



vn 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

TN the chateau park the shells were falling 
thick as leaves in an autumn forest. The 
nightfall was bitter and gray. The sunshine 
with which the day began long since had fled. 
Fast-moving somber clouds were blotting out the 
sky, while squalls of wailing wind gave promise 
of a night of storm. 

Along the road that dipped beyond the chateau 
park a line of troops were passing. They 
marched in single file with serried intervals and 
apprehensive step, like hunted deer, moving 
swiftly at the double, then falling flat upon their 
faces, while the blast of death went hurtling 
overhead. 

The men wore helmets covered with the same 
material as the sand-bags of the trenches. 
Their uniforms were in color like the dust of the 
road. On their shoulders they bore great packs; 
their rifles were carried at the trail. When they 

110 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

doubled they were oppressed by these toiling 
burdens. 

Ever since noon over the dip of the road in an 
endless chain the troops had been passing. 
Sometimes a fatal shell fell athwart that human 
chain, and one, two, three, or more went down. 
There was a rush of stretcher-bearers, and limp 
figures were removed. But the column did not 
waver. The broken links were closed, and the 
endless chain moved on. Whatever else might 
happen, the firing-line must be fed, and these 
marching men could know no pause. 

Inside the chateau the thick walls muffled 
every noise, the sound of the guns seemed far 
away, and the cry of the stricken could not be 
heard. 

When the storm began I was afraid that the 
chateau would soon be about our heads, but the 
calm of the brigadier gave me faith in the in- 
vulnerability of the walls. The great, dark, 
paneled room was wrapped in gloom. The 
brigadier sat in a chair beside the window, the 
adjutant sat at a 'phone, almost obscured. 

As I gazed at the face of the brigadier that 

tornado of battle without seemed in another 

world. His long, lean frame was sunken deep 

into his chair. In the twilight all his minor 

features were lost, but a bold, high forehead, a 

111 



THE REAL FRONT 

pallid countenance, and eyes as black as the 
night itself were clearly discerned. The red and 
gold of his insignia gave the one reheving touch 
of color. Looking upon him, sitting there so 
somber and aloof in the gloom of the chateau, 
I seemed to be regarding a portrait by Reubens 
or some old Flemish master. 

Outside, the shell-swept dip of the road and 
the hunted figures reminded one of battle. But 
in the room with the brigadier there dwelt the 
calm of vespers. Once dm'ing the early after- 
noon a shell came crashing through the upper 
stories of the chateau. I was all atremble. 
But the brigadier, with whom I was conversing 
at that moment, merely raised his eyebrows and 
with cold indifference announced : " That's pretty 
close, my boy. Go on, my boy, go on. Don't 
let that interrupt you." 

Now and again a sudden ring of the 'phone 
told of a frantic cry from the trenches or the 
guns. Often the adjutant breathed with excite- 
ment as he uttered portentous news. Some- 
times there was a pause while the chief glanced 
at a map or pondered dispositions. But his im- 
perturbable calm was unbroken, and always in 
tliat quiet, low-spoken voice he gave his answer. 

Only once in that long and trying day did I 
hear his accent change. He was for some time 

112 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

without a message from a certain forward ob- 
serving officer. "What's he there for?" he ex- 
claimed, testily, and, taking the 'phone, he laid 
down the law in the terms of a soldier. 

Many a time thereafter, when I had been far 
forward in the midst of battle, there came with a 
steadying peace the picture of that brigadier. 
Two weeks later our line was suddenly pierced 
by the foe. Consternation reigned in the 
trenches. During those awful moments of sus- 
pense, while I sat in battalion headquarters 
telegraphing to our guns, there flashed before me 
in the shadow the memory of that serene and 
steadfast face. In a moment of such impotence 
for us the memory of the bragadier seemed tran- 
scendental as the thought of God Himself. 

My days' confinement in the chateau came by 
the chance of battle. We were taken over from 
another battery, and I had been sent forward to 
acquaint myself with the zone of fire. In the 
early morning I had ridden across country for 
five miles with my groom. At the right-group 
artillery headquarters I was to receive a guide to 
direct me through to the guns. The right-group 
headquarters I found situated in a chateau 
famous throughout Belgium for its miraculous 
escape from the shells. I left my horse in the 
care of the groom in the stables, and entered the 

8 113 



THE REAL FRONT 

room reserved as headquarters. Before any ex- 
planations could be entered into our calm was 
broken. The Hun let loose a mine beneath our 
trenches, and even where we were the ground 
was shaken from the vast reverberation. In a 
twinkling all the enemy's artillery was in action. 
We had been plunged without the slightest warn- 
ing from the peace of a springtime morning into 
the wildest inferno of battle. A message from 
the battery to which I was going later sent me 
instructions to wait until a barrage which cut 
off their approach had been lifted. All day I 
waited, and at night I received instructions to 
return to the wagon-lines to convoy ammunition. 

We had had a month of calm, an unheard-of 
experience in the salient of Ypres. With the suc- 
cession of uneventful days, and the serenity of 
the springtime, we had almost forgotten that 
world of war in which we dwelt. Men came out 
of the trenches and returned again, just as those 
at home went to their daily tasks. Life took on 
an almost peaceful round. 

Among the cavahy and the artillery we had a 
horse-show, and the infantry while out at rest 
indulged in a festive day of sports. At the 
wagon-lines the monotony of life was beginning 
to pall. I was glad when the major said to me, 
"You're for the guns to-morrow." 

lU 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

As usual, I went to town for my last night out, 
and found the place ahum with excitement. 
Yvonne, the belle of the Estaminet des Trois 
Amis, was smiling and dealing out beer to a host 
of ruddy admirers. Every eating-place was 
crowded with troops, glad for a change from 
army rations. The streets were full of happy 
faces. Old friends everywhere were exchanging 
greetings or collecting for hilarious discussion. 

"Hello, bo! Ain't you gone west yet.^^" ex- 
claimed a chap who had been in the same regi- 
ment with me in 1914. "Why,'' he reproached 
in feigned distress, "I thought that you were 
sprouting daisies long ago." 

"The same to you, old-timer," I answered. 
"We are certainly both long overdue for our 
harp and crown." 

Everywhere the streets of the little town 
seemed to effervesce with merriment and glad- 
ness. 

The next night through that same happy 
little town the ambulances were rushing with 
their streams of wounded. Motor-buses were 
pouring in with supports from the far-back 
country. All the old faces had been swept into 
the valley of death, or beyond. Through the 
laughing streets the bugles had sounded "Alarm !" 
Men had left their beer undrunk, their meals 

115 



THE REAL FRONT 

uneaten; In the shops they had dropped their 
purchases; from street corners and baths, from 
canteens and billets, they came to the points of 
assembly with a rush, adjusting rifles and equip- 
ment as they came. There were a few sharp 
orders, and the men had marched away. 

Last night in the Estaminet des Trois Arm's all 
was blithesome and light-hearted. But the 
black hand of war again had swept those merry 
lads into inferno, and little Yvonne sobbed to 
herself as she sat alone and desolate. 

The foundations of our world of yesterday 
seemed as established as the hills; to-day they 
are as mist. Yesterday I stood at attention 
while the major-general of a division passed. 
Tommies and mere junior officers might come 
and go, but that resplendent general passing in 
his luxurious limousine seemed fixed and set. 
Indeed, had I not said to myself as he passed, 
"His future is secure." But in the chateau on 
that bitter evening the adjutant announced in 
tones of awe, "The general of the division hold- 
ing our left was killed this morning." 

The brigadier's headquarters for me was a 
place of ever -increasing gloom. It had gone ill 
with us, and every mischance was echoed back 
into that chateau, as into a whispering gallery. 
One's heart grew heavy with ever-increasing 

116 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

news of disaster. At such an hour the imper- 
turbability of the brigadier shadowed forth his 
invincible faith. He smiled as I clicked my 
spurs and saluted to him in parting, and called 
out, "Good luck to you, my lad," as I left the 
room. 

In the hallway I met the adjutant. "I envy 
your old boy his stoic calm," I declared. 

"The same here," said the adjutant. "He is 
certainly a priceless example to the rest of us 
chaps." 

Leaving the chateau for the noise without was 
like coming from the deep recesses of a light- 
house into the open of an angry sea. One's first 
impulse was to dart back again into the cloistral 
seclusion of the muffled walls. Overhead there 
was a constant whir of shells. The Germans 
had got by aeroplane the exact position of a 
heavy battery opposite, and around the gun- 
pits there was an endless rain of bursting shells. 

The cordite in one gun-pit was ignited by the 
detonation of an enemy shell. In a moment the 
whole gun-pit glowed with fire, and flames forty 
feet high leaped up into the heavens. "Gawd 
pity the poor blighters in that gun-pit!" some 
one exclaimed. I felt a pang for those unfort- 
unate gunners who in a twinkling would be 

burned to a crisp. 

117 



THE REAL FRONT 

It was pitch dark now, but the landscape was 
momentarily alight from the bm'ning cordite. 
In the glare we beheld that long^ thin column 
still moving at the double over the dip of the 
road. In the lurid light the crouching, dart- 
ing figures looked more than ever like hunted 
beasts. 

That morning when I arrived all was sunshine 
in the courtyard. Through the wood behind 
the morning light was stealing, the trees were 
thrilling to the voices of the springtime. As we 
cantered in toward the stables my charger 
pricked his ears to the voice of a lark. I breathed 
deeply of the scent of meadow and wild-wood, 
and exulted in the balm of the morning air. 

But the close of day was sad indeed in the 
changes that had fallen. The sweet wild-wood 
was inky blackness; a tempest swept the forest, 
through which the louder tempest of the red 
artillery shrieked and screamed. 

The courtyard, that morning so spick and span 
and clean, was now Kttered with undreamed-of 
debris, arms and equipment, bully-beef tins, 
ration limbers, cartridge-cases, and the inevitable 
backwash of battle. Here and there great shell- 
holes gaped. The wounded were lying along the 
sides of the buildings. In the carriage-house a 

first-aid dressing-station was clogged with pa- 
ns 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

tients. Behind the carriage-house lay a row of 
pathetic figures, sewed up in gray blankets. 

I found my groom busily engaged in holding 
my charger down to earth. But as soon as he 
observed my approach, that quieted him, and he 
opened his great black eyes appealingly, and 
rubbed his nose against me, saying, plainly, "Do 
take me out of this wretched place!" 

Once in the saddle, our mounts needed no 
urging. They proceeded to put the greatest pos- 
sible distance between them and the dreadful 
chateau where they had suffered nightmares all 
day. 

The roads were black with troops, moving up 
for the counter-attack. Voices which I had 
heard the night before in the Estaminet hailed 
me in passing. Later, when I heard that this 
one and that one had gone west, I recalled their 
last salutation. 

Now and again I was stopped by the clogging 
of traffic. At such times those going up were 
keen for the latest rumors from the ones going 
down. 

"How much have we lost.?'" "Are we hold- 
ing?" "Have we counter-attacked yet.?" "Are 
there many before us.?" "Will our crowd be the 
first to go over the top.?" These were the com- 
monest questions. 

119 



THE REAL FRONT 

I paused in one place and bent in my saddle 
to shake the hand of a brother officer of the old 
Seventeenth Nova Scotia Highlanders. We had 
been together at the very start and felt a camarad- 
erie not known in later units of swifter-changing 
personnel. 

I had heard of dread presentiments in France, 
but never did I see a clearer case of presentiment 
than that of my brother officer. He had been 
on the line for nearly two years, and was noted 
for his sang-froid. But that night his hand 
trembled and his face was ashen pale. He tried 
to smile at some pleasantry of mine, but his 
countenance was overcast by a cloud of sickening 
apprehension. 

"By-bye, old man. My time has come," he 
said, huskily, in parting. 

"Nonsense!" I answered. "They haven't 
made a bullet that can hit you yet." 

But I watched him move off as one whose 
doom was sealed. Many a time he had passed 
unscathed where it had seemed that scarce a 
blade of grass could live. I thought of him as 
one who lived a charmed life. For such a one to 
lose his heart seemed direst tragedy. Two hours 
later, in leading his company across a field, his 
head was blown off his body. 

On leaving my pal of the old Seventeenth I 

120 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

felt overwhelmed by a wave of sadness that all 
day had been rising within me. This was the 
end of a bitter, bitter day. How could a man 
keep up his heart through weeks and months 
of such calamity? 

With brooding sadness I pulled my horse up at 
the cross-roads to let a long column of motor- 
lorries pass. While I paused thus in moody 
silence I heard from up the road the sound of 
singing. A small squad of men were coming out 
of the trenches, and, true to convention, they 
were singing as they came. 

"Who are you.^" I asked, as they passed, 
thinking that they were some cyclist company or 
fatigue party that had been up for special duty 
in the trenches. 

"We're the Princess Pats," came the proud re- 
ply, and then I heard them launch off again into 
another song. 

I saw that same regiment, then nearly a thou- 
sand strong, pass down the road toward Ypres 
not less than a week before. I remembered how 
I was thrilled as I thought of their fighting 
prowess, and gazed at their colonel, appearing 
every inch a soldier, riding his charger at the 
head of his men. Behind the colonel came the 
pipes, playing "Blue Bonnets Over the Border." 
After that came the long lines of companies with 

121 



THE REAL FRONT 

their full complement of officers. It took fifteen 
minutes for the entire regiment to pass going in, 
but it took less than a minute for that remnant 
to pass going out. 

All that was left of them went by. They had 
been cut to pieces often before, but this time they 
were decimated. The gallant colonel had been 
killed while leading his men over the top. AH 
the company commanders and other officers had 
been wounded or killed and only one boyish- 
faced subaltern remained, who now marched at 
the head of the column. 

Companies that went in over two hundred 
strong were now returning with twenty-five. 
The total strength of the regiment as it passed 
was less than seventy. Those seventy had suf- 
fered agonies beyond description. They had 
faced the springing of a giant mine. They had 
occupied the crater, and they had held on in the 
face of shell-fire so terrible that it had robbed 
some of their reason. When the Germans had 
offered them a truce and asked them to siu'render 
the crater, they had yelled back: "Siu'render be 
damned! Come and take the crater!" 

Tlie Huns had not taken the crater. Rein- 
forcements had arrived and it was safe. Now, 
the remnant of the regiment that saved the day 
were marching back to billets. Their uniforms 

122 



THE END OF A BITTER DAY 

were torn and caked with blood and filth. Their 
faces were haggard and drawn. The regiment 
was shattered, but its spirit was unbroken. 
While one man remained, the Princess Pats re- 
mained. With that same blithesome and light- 
hearted mien the handful went swinging by, 
joining with lusty voices in an old troop song: 

** Steadily and shoulder to shoulder. 
Steadily we'll march and sing. 
Marching along, steady and strong. 
Like the boys of the Old Brigade." 

Down the road I followed them into the dark- 
ness until the sound of the singing grew faint and 
died away. Then, with light heart restored, I, 
too, struck up a song and cantered down the 
road. For me the flashing glimpse of that brave 
remnant had swept all clouds away. 

I had seen a star at the end of a bitter day. 



vm 

THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

/CHRISTMAS EVE of 1917 dawns on this 
^^ world in battle array. From the Vosges 
Mountains to the sea there runs a crimson line, 
dyed ever deeper by the blood of men. 

In the golden haze of childhood we heard that 
priceless story of the hills of Bethlehem, of that 
first Christmas Eve when the shepherds were 
watching their flocks by night. Every child's 
imagination has leaped to the story. The 
sophistry of later years cannot efface the en- 
raptured charm that lingers with its memory. 
We read again of that night when the angels 
sang, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth 

3ace and good will toward men," and we find 
liie story still instinct with sweetness and with 
fragrance. 

But we turn away from the hills of Bethlehem 
to the hills of France and Flanders, and the 
angels* song is drowned by the voice of the roar- 
ing guns. The Star of Bethlehem goes down in 

124 



/ 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

the smoke and reek of battle, and the stars that 
the shepherds watched are lost in lurid flashes 
and in shooting rockets through the night. 

Twenty centuries have passed since the angels 
sang of the Prince of Peace, and now to-night 
"the earth is full of tumult and the sky is dark 
with wrath.'' Was the angels' song in vain, and 
was our faith made "of such stuff as dreams are 
made"? 

Our sybaritic friend who still finds ease in an 
austere age announces in blase tones of arm- 
chair omniscience, "Oh yes, all faith is gone." 
But we shall not turn to the habitues of soft and 
easy places for counsel in deepest things. Such 
subjects are beyond their ken and beyond their 
depth, for little shallops keep close to the shore. 

In all ages the voice of faith comes to us from 
deep waters. "Out of the depths have I cried 
unto Thee!" was the exclamation of David long 
ago. 

Before the battle of Marston Moor Oliver 
Cromwell could not be found. Finally a little 
maid said, "Please, I think the mayster's up 
here," and she led the way to a garret room. 
There, peeping through a slit in the panel of the 
door, they beheld the great Oliver on his knees, 
the tears streaming down his face, praying and 
sobbing to God that he might not have to fight 



THE REAL FRONT 

next day. But he did fight next day, and on the 
historic field of Marston Moor his Ironsides swept 
Rupert's cavah-y before them. 

Stonewall Jackson, the Southern hero, whom 
Lord Roberts called the greatest soldier of his- 
tory, often prayed in his tent all through the 
night. America would do well in her present 
hour of crisis to recall the life of this, her most 
shining military leader, and to analyze and strive 
to emulate those qualities that made his strength. 

The greatest faith in the world at this Christ- 
mastide is found in the front-line trenches. In 
peaceful and sheltered places such as New York 
and Boston one encounters much of pessimism. 
This glad season for many at home is full of sad- 
ness. But not so with the boys at the front. 
The purest optimism is found on the firing-line, 
and optimism is the highest proof of faith. 

The faith of a soldier expresses itself in action, 
not in talk. In the army wordy and windy dis- 
cussions on religion are tabooed. Unctuous 
phrases and sounding creeds have been swept 
away. Much is gone, but much remains. In- 
deed, the fundamental thing remains — that is, 
an unquestioning faith that God still holds 
dominion and that the future is safe in His 
keeping. 

At home, with abandoned tones and distressed 

126 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

faces, we hear folks say, "May God help us!" 
Their every attitude is that of complete despair. 
The way they say "God help us" is just the 
same as though they said "All hope is gone." 

The pessimistic ones at home think that all is 
awry, that God has forsaken us, and that naught 
but evil remains in the world. These Ichabods 
should take a trip to the front-line trenches and 
I am sure they would return in high spirits, 
with faith rekindled, and with conviction that in 
spite of this awful war there is far more good 
abroad to-day than there was in the peaceful 
and prosperous time just before the fateful sum- 
mer of 1914. 

General Sherman says in his Personal Mem- 
oirs: "I never saw the rear of an army but I 
feared that some calamity had happened at the 
front — the apparent confusion, broken wagons, 
crippled horses, men lying about dead and 
maimed, parties hastening to and fro in seeming 
disorder, and a general appearance of something 
dreadful about to ensue; all these signs, however, 
lessened as I neared the front, and there the con- 
trast was complete — perfect order, men and 
horses full of confidence, and it was not unusual 
to find great hilarity and cheering. . . . Therefore, 
for comfort and safety, I sm^ely would rather be 
at the front than the rear line of battle." 

127 



THE REAL FRONT 

There is too much of this trembling and un- 
certain "rear-line-o£-battle view" with us at 
home. But however fearful and cowardly we 
may feel behind, in the front line a brave and 
steadfast faith remains. 

From my personal experience there is far less 
talk of religion and far more real practice of 
religion in the trenches than there is in the 
churches. Every man there is training himself to 
think of the other fellow; their voices are gruff, 
but their interminglings are sweetened by simple- 
hearted kindness. Selfishness is the rule at home, 
but there it is selflessness. 

Privation and danger and a hard existence 
draw men's souls together. Those who say that 
Jesus's teaching of the brotherhood of man is a 
failure have never learned of the brotherhood of 
a regiment in peril. The officer's only thought in 
times of crisis is for the safety of his men, and the 
men themselves are likewise thinking only of 
him or of the safety of their pals. 

"Don't moind me, mate; toike 'Arry 'ome," 
said a sorely wounded cockney who preferred to 
die on the field in order that the stretcher-bearer 
might give his pal a chance. 

Against the barbarity and hatred of this war 
I will put the every-day life of the front line, 
abounding as it does with a wealth of love and 

128 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

charity and simple kindness. Strange as it may 
seem, much of pure sweetness still reigns in the 
trenches. Much of the spirit of the Galilean 
Master is found in the dugout and on the fire- 
step. 

In the summer of 1914 I did not think that a 
world so utterly selfless as the front line could 
exist. "Over there" it seems as though one 
would do anything for the other fellow. They 
are all up against it, and it is the unwritten code 
that a spirit of helpfulness must be shown by all. 

When men are dwelling daily on the edge of 
sudden death we find qualities of soul within 
them that we never dreamed of. Most men 
show up far better at the front than they do at 
home. 

Boys who at home seemed worthless cads at 
the front show forth the most godlike bravery 
and devotion. None would reprehend more than 
they such allusions to their service. But I am 
sure that if Jesus Christ came back to the world 
on this Christmas Eve, He would go under the 
star-shells of the firing-line to find those who 
would understand Him best. 

Prof. Alexander Belmain Bruce, the famous 

Scotch theologian, a few years ago made what 

was then considered a very radical statement; 

he said that he was becoming more and more con- 
9 129 



THE REAL FRONT 

vinced that the true Church was not in the 
church, but outside of the church, separated 
from it not by immorahty and godlessness, but 
by sincerity and deep moral earnestness. 

Our Lord would find the society of many of 
our churches to-day quite as uncongenial to 
Him as that of the temple which He cleaned out 
with a scourge. But in the trenches He would 
come unto His own just as He did among the 
harlots and publicans and sinners long ago. 
They would hail Him, not only as their Lord, 
but as their own Big Brother in their daily round 
of sacrifice. 

" 'E's been all through these trenches, and 
that's why 'E knows us and we knows Tm," was 
the way a Tommy put it, in claiming Jesus as his 
ally. Deep down in the heart of almost every 
soldier I believe that there is a faith in Jesus 
Christ as his ally and as his Saviour. They who 
have been through the deep waters together have 
a comradeship that none others can know. In- 
stinctively the soldier turns to the Master of 
sacrifice as to one of them. 

The "Comrade in White" is not some dim 
distant figure for the men on the battle-fields. 
In war the veil between the seen and the unseen 
gets thinner, and many a simple Tommy has 
pierced that veil with eyes of vision, and has 

ISO 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

come to know that face, that theologians have 
seen only in a glass darkly. 

All have heard of the angel of Mons. Critics 
at home discuss the appearance and all such 
evidences of the supernatural in cold aloofness. 
I heard one of the Old Army who was there 
speak of the "Comrade in White" who appeared 
among our armies in the bitterest days of the 
retreat. Every accent of the old soldier as he 
referred to this phenomenon of faith was that of 
profoundest reverence. His very attitude seemed 
to imply, **Take off thy shoes from off thy feet, 
for the place whereon thou standest is holy 
ground." 

A friend of mine who was standing by said, 
"Oh, he's just a superstitious Catholic." 

"Well," I answered, "victorious armies have 
always been made up of just such superstitious 
Catholics." The pikemen of Charles Martel, 
the followers of Jeanne d'Arc, the horsemen of 
Oliver Cromwell, the mutiny victors of Have- 
lock's army, all these were allied with unseen 
legions. In front of their captains and in 
front of their generals it was always the "Com- 
rade in White" who marched at the head of the 
forces. 

Never have I been so distressed over the ap- 
parent strength of the Germans as when on quiet 

131 



THE REAL FRONT 

spring nights I have heard them singing where 
their trenches were near to ours: 

''Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gotty^ which in 
English is, "A mighty fortress is our God." 

To hear those strong German voices rising in 
the night and swelling in that great chorus of 
Luther's battle-hymn, sounding with a note of 
omnipotence, created in my heart a respect for 
our enemy's might and power which I had never 
felt before. This respect was only dimmed by 
later intimate revelations of their hypocrisy. 

"Hark, the herald angels sing!" will be sung 
at many a point on the firing-line this Christmas, 
and to the Tommy there will be no incongruity 
in the singing. 

While a lot of people at home who never had 
any faith are worrying their friends on how to 
reconcile faith and war, the soldier out of the 
sacrifice of war is learning a faith that he never 
knew in peace. For him all creeds and dogmas 
of belief and unbelief are united in the one 
eternal principle of sacrifice. 

The creed of a true soldier is one with the creed 

of the Galilean. The famous painting called 

"The Greater Love," exhibited at the Royal 

Academy two years ago, brings out this fact. 

The picture shows a dead soldier fallen at the foot 

of the cross on which hangs the dead figure of the 

132 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

Christ. Underneath is the inscription, "What 
greater thing can a man do than to lay down his 
life for a friend?" 

The Christian religion is built up on the fun- 
damental principle of the cross. This is also 
the fundamental principle of soldiering. We 
hear stories of the oflScer who went out into 
No Man's Land to bring in a wounded Tommy 
and died in the effort; of the young lieutenant 
who, seeing a bomb with the fuse set dropped 
among his men, fell upon it, and was blown to 
pieces, thus saving the lives of his men; of the 
devoted Tommy who intercepted with his own 
body the steel of the enemy's bayonet and thus 
died to save his captain. Every day on the 
western front men are laying down their lives 
for their friends, and, better still, there are 
multitudes of those whose days are a living sac- 
rifice for their comrades. Over the carcass- 
strewn fields of France we read the faith of the 
soldier, a faith inarticulate in life, but bearing 
witness forever in death. 

While the soldiers are proving their faith at 
the front, we at home must not be losing ours. 
H. G. Wells, writing of the present appalling con- 
dition, says: "Men will have to look to another 
Power. They might very well look to Him now 
— instead of looking across the Atlantic. They 

133 



THE REAL FRONT 

have but to look up and they will see Him. And 
until they do look up and see Him this world is 
no better than a rat-pit." 

The greatest and most dangerous onslaught 
which the German propaganda is making against 
us in America to-day is in spreading abroad the 
idea that this is a material instead of a spiritual 
struggle. 

If America became imbued with the idea that 
this were merely a material struggle, she would 
soon lose her fighting effectiveness. Russia has 
fallen down because of this. Democracies can- 
not long be kept fighting merely for temporal 
gain, for territorial aggrandizement, for trade 
rights, or for world power. A war fought on 
such baser issues would soon lose its appeal to 
the people. But a spiritual struggle, rightly ap- 
praised, will command the deathless devotion of 
all free peoples. The British Commonwealth 
and the French Republic, after all their depletion 
of treasure and manhood, are keener to wage this 
war to an end than they were in 1914, because 
they realize more profoundly than ever that this 
is a spiritual struggle. 

The Crusaders of France and England traveled 
far from their homes, and together faced danger, 
privation, and death. Godfrey de Bouillon and 
Richard Coeur de Lion were alike in their de- 

134 



THE FAITH OF A SOLDIER 

votion to the cause of rescuing the Holy Sepul- 
cher. 

So to-day England and France are once more 
fighting together, the manhood of both nations 
are united as the Crusaders of old in a spiritual 
struggle, and most rightly America at last is with 
them. Above all things it behooves America at 
this hour to teach her new armies the deeper 
issues of this struggle. 

Cromwell said, "The secret of an army's fight- 
ing power is that each soldier shall know that for 
which he is fighting." Now is the time for a 
Peter the Hermit to rise up in America and to 
preach to our New Crusaders at Yaphank, at 
Plattsburg, and at all camps and training-areas 
where American soldiers are being prepared for 
the fray; to tell them that this is a spiritual as 
well as a national war, a Second Crusade, that 
as they train it must be in soul as well as in body, 
for it is the soul of an army that stands against all 
onslaughts and that in the end brings victory. 
Some one has written from Verdun, "Only he 
who has heaven in his heart can withstand this 
hell." 



IX 

MY FINEST MOMENT IN FRANCE 

"VTY finest moment in France was the first 
'*' ■*• time we advanced our guns, after nearly 
two years of waiting. I found very little of the 
gay or dashing in my experience of modern war- 
fare. It was rather a melancholy round of dis- 
mal tasks, calling more for the qualities of stolid- 
ity and patience than for those of valor and dash. 

"I am fed up," was the commonest expression 
of all in the Tommy vernacular. One of the 
officer's hardest tasks was to keep the spirits 
of his men bucked up. 

Suddenly in the Somme push there was ex- 
perienced a change of spirit throughout the en- 
tire forces. While we sat still in one place 
month after month our spirits steadily descended, 
but when we were once advancing we were un- 
dismayed by cold, or hardship, or lack of food, 
or ceaseless toil, or added dangers, or increasing 
death. None of these things mattered so long 
as we were going ahead. 

136 



MY FINEST MOMENT IN FRANCE 

The first time we advanced the guns of our 
battery in the Somme last fall was the happiest 
moment of all my eighteen months' fighting in 
France. That was what we all went to France 
for, and at last, after ceaseless and apparently in- 
effective sacrifice, we began to realize the end of 
our existence. 

One bright summer morning in column of 
route our battery pulled out of the Ypres salient 
and marched steadily for several days to a quiet 
place in the back country well behind the lines. 
Here on a great tract of wild country, reserved as 
a maneuvering area, we practised assiduously for 
open warfare. 

During months of virtual siege-work much of 
the tactics of open fighting had been forgotten. 
On this maneuvering-area we were trained again 
at battery drill, at taking up new positions, at 
coming into action at the gallop, and at co- 
operating with cavalry. 

The air was full of expectancy during these 
days. Were we destined for an advance soon? 
Were we really to become an armee de chasse? 
Some said that Fritz's line could not be broken, 
that the war would end where we were. But 
evidently the Powers that Be thought otherwise 
or they would not thus have trained us in open 
maneuvers. 

137 



THE EEAL FRONT 

When the training behind the lines was ended 
we were despatched to the Somme, and as we 
marched thither the speculations and rumors 
increased. 

Once in action in our new position, we never 
really settled down as in former places. Some- 
how there was a feeling that our gun-pits here 
were temporary abiding-places. At night we 
watched the star-shells with the long track of 
light that traced the German line. "Behind that 
line is where our guns are going to be, me boys," 
said Hellfire MacDougal, sergeant of No. 1 
section, to his gun crew on the first night in 
action. "All of us fellers may not be alive to git 
there, but this old howitzer is goin' to bark right 
over there where Fritz's battalion reserves are 
guzzlin' beer and pretzels right now." 

The first time I was up in the front line in this 
sector I found myself regarding the opposite para- 
pet with strange emotions. In the Ypres salient 
and in all other places heretofore the opposite 
parapet marked a forbidden country, an in- 
scrutable land which we might not explore. As 
I scanned that gray line of sand-bags that marked 
out the Huns' parapet I seemed to read, "Thus 
far shalt thou come, and no farther." But in 
the Somme I read a new writing. Every time 
I regarded Fritz's front line I seemed to descry 

138 



MY FINEST MOMENT IN FRANCE 

the name of a popular English revue, "Come 
Over Here." Always beckoning from the oppo- 
site parapet by day and beaconing in the Verey 
lights by night was that invitation, "Come 
Over Here!" 

After nearly two weeks of waiting I was back 
at the wagon-lines, acting as battery captain, 
my job being to move ammunition forward to the 
guns. For nearly a week I had been rushing up 
the supply, until we had several thousand rounds 
in reserve, and still the guns were crying for 
more. "Next strafe we 'ave 'elFs goin' to pop 
for fair," exclaimed the sergeant-major when the 
brigade headquarters ordered still more ammuni- 
tion to be delivered in our already deluged pits. 

To quote from the sergeant-major, "That 
night the lid blew off o' 'ell!" I was standing 
with a brother officer watching the peaceful 
twilight when an aeroplane, sailing low, dropped 
a white flare across the heavens. In a twinkling 
the stillness was gone and a thousand guns spoke 
with one voice. Instinctively every one looked 
at his neighbor and exclaimed, "The big push 
has begun !" 

All night long, without a break, the bombard- 
ment continued. About four in the morning, 
after ceaseless hours of hauling ammunition, I 
sank down in my tent and instantly was asleep, 

139 



THE REAL FRONT 

only to be awakened almost immediately by a 
galloper who had just arrived with a message 
from the guns. The message read, *'Have gun 
limbers at battery position to advance guns at 
eight A.M." At last our great moment had 
come. Our two years of waiting had not been 
in vain. 

Two hours before the time ordered found us on 
the road. At the battery position there was a 
thrill of excitement, not common among old 
soldiers in France. Hellfire MacDougal, un- 
kempt and grimy from his night in the gun-pit, 
was spitting tobacco-juice and shouting orders 
with more vehemence than ever. To see him 
and his crew jump to the task of man-handling 
the gun out of the gun-pit, one would never have 
thought that for ten hours they had been tending 
a reeking, roaring howitzer. 

As soon as all the guns were hooked to the 
limbers the order was given, "The battery will 
advance in column of route from the right . W-a-lk 
— march." How many times had I given that 
order for mere maneuvers, but now for the first 
time it sounded with a thrill. Gunners and 
drivers alike were dead beat, but there was no 
lagging back. With a gusto the guns and limbers 
swept over the crest onto the road. Once on the 
road, the whole column swept forward at the trot. 

140 



MY FINEST MOMENT IN FRANCE 

I had the position to which we were to advance, 
two thousand yards ahead, marked on a map. 
Already the major had gone forward to lay out 
the lines of fire from the new position. 

On each side of the road new regiments were 
moving up for the counter-attack which the 
Germans were sure to launch at any moment, 
while Hke a great torrent guns and limbers roared 
over the pave in the center of the road. 

As we drew nearer to the actual scene of 
fighting we began to encounter the backwash of 
the battle. The roads were gone now, the 
ground was pocked with shell-holes, and progress 
was slow. The dead and dying were more and 
more in evidence. Across an open field, plowed 
up with shell-fire, the ground was literally strewn 
with corpses, mute witnesses of the awful price 
paid for that scarred, torn field. 

The Royal Engineers, wizards of the modern 
battle-fields, had gone before us in a twinkling 
bridging trenches and ditches and breaking down 
impassable barriers. Our progress was not easy, 
obstacles were on every hand, guns swamped, 
limbers capsized, pole-bars broken, horses down, 
harness snapped, drivers wounded — these were 
incidents of our advance. Now and again at 
some unspeakable misfortune Hellfire Mac- 
Dougal treated the boys to selections from 

141 



THE REAL FRONT 

that trenchant vocabulary that won him his 
name. 

Once when a gun had been deeply mired and 
its obstinacy was just beginning to work on our 
tempers there appeared a sight to cheer the most 
despondent. Across the field came a swarm of 
Boche prisoners, a gray -headed Prussian colonel 
marching alone at the head. The colonel had 
lost his helmet, he was unkempt and unshaven, 
and his clothes were covered with dirt, but his 
white shoulder badges showed intact. His 
haughty attitude and his supercilious counte- 
nance marked him as one of our captured lions. 

One leonine prisoner like that was worth more 
than a thousand of the abject, pot-bellied, blink- 
ing, spectacled Fritzes that followed after. That 
colonel was a soldier worthy of our own steel, a 
true prize of war. As he marched down the line 
with his head in the air he paid us all the com- 
pliment of saying, "At last you've taken a real 
prisoner." 

After that incident of the colonel I saw nothing 
of our advance except a momentary glimpse of a 
disabled tank high on the side of a trench. The 
task in hand was so all-absorbing that one lost 
the sense of other things. 

But, in spite of all obstacles, we arrived at the 
place which yesterday Fritz had called his 

14^ 



MY FINEST MOMENT IN FRANCE 

country. Of course we did not cheer, the job in 
hand was too grim and too exacting for any mere 
aside. But as the guns were swept into their 
new positions the order was given, "Halt! Ac- 
tion front." Every man heard that order with a 
deeper joy and satisfaction than he had ever 
known before in France. 

All about at our feet lay the dead and the dying, 
while the stretcher-bearers passed back and 
forth like angels of mercy. Out of the opposite 
sky-line came a constant whir of shells, and an 
unbroken hail of shrapnel rained about us. 
Sometimes near and sometimes, happily, far 
away a high explosive-shell sent a great gey- 
ser of earth and fire and steel high up into the 
air. 

"It's pretty thick," some one exclaimed. 

"Aw, g'arn! What d'ye expect up here?" ex- 
postulated his pal. "It may be hot, but we'll 
blame soon make it hotter when we're passin' 
the fast freight back to Fritz!" 

Every man had long since earned his rest. 
All night at the guns, with its awful nerve-racking 
shock, and now all day under shell-fire, these men 
were ceaselessly toiling, stripped to the waist, 
digging for dear life to make an overhead pro- 
tection for themselves and the guns from the 
showers of shrapnel. Human endurance was 

143 



THE REAL FRONT 

long since exhausted. But the only taps that 
sounded there for rest were the taps of death. 
But what mattered exhaustion, or pain, or 
wounds, or death? We had justified the end of 
our soldier's existence, and such a consciousness 
brought a satisfaction that outweighed all else. 



X 



"the day of RECKONING' 



TT all began on board the "Colonist Special for 
-■■ Berlin." Our troop-train had stopped at a 
French-Canadian town famous for its ardent 
intoxicant known as whisky hlanc. 

The troop-train of the New Brunswick con- 
tingent lay on an adjacent track. They had 
already been waiting there for hours. Despite 
the pickets, many New Brunswick incorrigibles 
had broken loose and had succeeded in kindling 
their spirits with the French-Canadian fire-water. 

As the Nova-Scotian train came to a stop, 
Arch Roary MacCabe swung himself onto the 
platform of our car, which bore the inscription, 
"Colonist Special for Berlin." 

Arch Roary was crazy drunk. The whisJcy 
hlanc had gone to his head and had transformed 
him into a maniac. His eyes were those of a wild 
beast seeking his prey, and an oozy slime covered 
his mouth. With the bound of a panther he 
leaped under the near platform of our car. 

lo 145 



THE REAL FRONT 

A little cockney sergeant, in blissful ignorance 
of the lumber-jack's fury, rushed toward him, 
exclaiming, pompously, " 'Ere, 'ere, git hout of 
this, Oi soiy." 

A mist came over Arch Roary's eyes as he 
reached out and sent the plucky little cockney 
flying headlong off the platform. With a yell 
that ended in a scream he announced, "I'm Arch 
Roary MacCabe, boss of the Miramichi drive, 
and I can clean up every dirty little herring- 
choker of a Nova-Scotian from here to the 
Banks of Newfoundland." 

The Nova-Scotians fought stoutly, but the 
wild Arch Roary, thanks to his whisky blanc, 
w^as possessed of superhuman strength and fierce- 
ness, and he felled his adversaries on the right 
and left, and crashed gloriously on, until, at the 
far end of the car, he was suddenly confronted 
by the leonine Red Maclsaac. 

Kipling's lines about when two strong men come 
face to face, were the first lines that came to me 
as I lay sprawled across a seat, with a gash in my 
head, and dimly regarded our Highland cham- 
pion confronting the madman of Miramichi. 
They were a rare brace of fighters as they stood 
confronting each other. According to Bombard- 
ier Judkins's description, "Red Maclsaac was 
built like a keg of nails, and was just as hard; 

146 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

and Arch Roary was a regular wildcat, quicker 'n 
greased lightnin' !" 

Red Maclsaac had been trained on the green 
pastures of the sea. Toiling with the cod hooks and 
dories had given him his broad and iron back, 
while ceaseless brawls ashore, on the baiting- 
grounds at Canso, had taught him all the latest 
tricks in catch-as-catch-can and rough-and- 
tumble fighting. 

From the Breton Frenchmen, who brought 
their barks to the Canso Straits to bait, and from 
the fishermen of St. Pierre and Miquelon he had 
learned all the fancy kicks and knock-out 
strokes, from the deadly "French Lash" to the 
"Whalebone Bend." 

Arch Roary was equally well versed in fair 
means and foul. The habitant voyageur in the 
shanties and along the river had introduced him 
to many a coup de grace not included in the 
Marquis of Queensberry's category. Handling 
logs with the river running white had trained in 
him that spirit which is as three to one in a 
fighter. 

None of us in the car could think of interfering 
now that a real fight was on. Many of us had 
experienced rough handling in that wild charge 
down the aisle, but we forgot our personal grudge 
in the epic struggle before us. 

147 



THE REAL FRONT 

"Ay, mon, but yon's a pretty pair o' lads 
whateffer," said old Quartermaster-sergeant 
MacQuirtle, who was an elder in the kirk at 
Judiac. MacQuirtle was a man of God, but he 
had an eye for fighting beauty. 

No ring-side crowd in 'Frisco ever got more 
spectacular demonstrations of the cardinal vir- 
tues of the fighting -man than were vouchsafed to 
us in that brief five minutes. 

The car, recently full of uproarious troops, was 
now silent as a church. Men crowded onto the 
seats over one another's shoulders and up into 
the sleeping-berths above, and hung,' fixed and 
breathless, on the fighting men. 

At the beginning Quartermaster- sergeant 
MacQuirtle had rubbed his hands in holy glee, 
exclaiming: "It's a f eight! It's a f eight!" But 
such epic struggles were beyond words, and every 
one bent toward the common focus, every sense 
lost in the oneness of the fight. 

At a climactic moment when every one's in- 
terest was intensest on the battle the door of the 
car was flung open, and into the fighting area 
strode Col. Donald MacKenzie MacTavish. 
Arch Roary, who was back-stepping from a 
slaughter-house blow of Maclsaac's, trampled on 
the colonel's toe and the wild Red came charging 

on. No one in the crowd seemed to notice the 

148 



''THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

intrusion of the colonel until, like the crack of 
doom, his awful voice rang out. 

Every man in that car, barring Arch Roary, 
knew the hell that lay behind that voice. In a 
twinkling the compact and annular ring-side 
mass had dissolved; like a herd of sheep they 
went helter-skelter; the invincible Maclsaac took 
on the aspect of a wilted sunflower, and a mute, 
imperious finger pointing toward the door was 
enough to inspire the erstwhile incorrigible 
LiacCabe to retire as precipitately as he had 
lately advanced. 

"Ay, but he's a fearsome mon whateffer, is the 
auld colonel," observed Quartermaster-sergeant 
MacQuirtle. No man or beast could brook the 
wrath of MacTavish. When his eye flashed and 
passion quivered in his voice the colonel be- 
longed to elemental things, a spirit brother to 
cyclones and volcanoes; mere men and human 
fighters were swept away before him. 

Arch Roary, retiring to his own contingent, 
told in tones of loudest braggadocio how that he 
had gone through the herring-chokers' train like 
a ramrod through a gun-barrel. 

"None of 'em's any good. They're a lousy 
bunch of slab-sided codfish. I et a hul earful 
of 'em up alive," declared Arch Roary. 

For the glory of their homeland, the New- 

149 



THE REAL FRONT 

Brunswickers were only too glad to overlook the 
cruel way in whicli Red Maclsaac liad left his 
trade-mark on the features of Arch Roary. 
They accepted his story without question, and 
when they met their rivals in the days to come 
they taunted them on how one lumber-jack was 
good for a car-load of slab-sided dorymen. 

Old Quartermaster-sergeant MacQuirtle was a 
man of experience and ripe wisdom. But it was 
more than his Judiac blood could stand when a 
blatant son of the ^liramichi taunted him thus 
at the army canteen. MacQuirtle threw all his 
peace precepts to the winds, and the saddened 
friends of the blatant one carried his prostrate 
form to the hospital on the canteen door. 

Colonel MacTa\ash, if he had only known, 
would certainly never have interrupted that 
sweet fight on the Colonist Special for Berlin. 
Wliat endless tribulations the colonel created for 
himself by causing the fight of two individuals 
to expand itself into the fight of two batteries ! 

A week after he arrived at Valcartier Camp 
the defaulters' parade brought up before the 
colonel no less than fiiteen men, the full comple- 
ment of a leave party that had visited the city 
of Quebec the day before. 

"Left turn! 'At off ! 'Shun!" Sergeant-major 
Fury brought the cidprits up with a jerk, caustic 

150 



''THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

fire and sarcasm leaping alike from his bristly 
mustache and his trembling swagger stick. 

"Oh, you miserable dogs! Oh, you miser- 
able dogs!" The lion-taming sergeant-major 
seemed to be saying this accustomed blessing as 
he regarded his lambs with splenetic hatred. 

The crime for which the unfortunate fifteen 
were yanked up before the colonel was that they 
had used their brass belt buckles for black- 
jacks on the Dufferin Terrace the afternoon 
before. When the beautiful ladies were there 
promenading with their Pomeranian poodles 
these shameless sons of Judiac, lusting for re- 
venge, had encountered the New Brunswick leave 
party, and had straightway set to work to qualify 
them one and all for an extended sick leave. 

"The shame o' it were, sir, that it 'appened 
roight where the loidies toikes afternoon tea. 
They 'ad 'is Majesty's uniform on, sir, when they 
gives this shameful spectacle. The scenes was 
'orrid, the language was 'orrible, and the loidies 
screamed something orful." One may infer from 
Sergeant-major Fury's description that the 
Willie-boys-afternoon-tea atmosphere w^as rudely 
transformed. 

Moldy Macintosh, Thirsty Thorn, and all the 
rest of B Battery leave party received the sen- 
tence, "Ten days C. B. and get your hair cut." 

151 



THE REAL FRONT 

C. B. means confined to barracks, and became a 
more and more frequent term in B Battery as 
time went by and the animosity increased for 
D Battery, the New Brunswick unit. 

By the time that these two units had arrived 
in France they had worked up a rivalry that was 
famous throughout the division. 

This rivalry was not without its blessings. If 
I caught Driver Red Maclsaac with his harness 
in bad condition I had but to mention the fact 
that Arch Roary's harness looked so much bet- 
ter, and Maclsaac's cheeks would become as red 
as his hair, and he would set to cleaning leather 
and burnishing metal with a rage that lasted for 
days. When Thirsty Thorn and Moldy Mac- 
intosh, numbers two and three on No. 1 gun 
crew, were slow in standing gun drill I had but to 
bellow at them, "I believe that the New-B runs- 
wickers would complete registering before you 
chaps got unlimbered." This taunt never failed 
to put the lightnings in their heels. 

Our battery was in action during our first two 
weeks in France in a place known as Hilquit 
Rise. On the left of our zone of fire was a certain 
likely observation post in the form of the Metron 
church steeple. We tried to get this target dur- 
ing all our time on that position, but without 

success. 

159t 



'*THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

We were relieved on that position by D Bat- 
tery, and on their first day in action, by a lucky 
shot, our rivals potted the target, which we and 
our predecessors for months had been seeking 
for in vain. 

A few evenings later the majors of the two 
respective batteries encountered each other in a 
town behind the lines and had no end of chafing 
and horse-play with each other regarding the 
lucky shot. 

"Ah, well," exclaimed the battery commander 
of D Battery to our major in parting, "luck was 
with us at the start, and so of course we'll have 
to give you chaps a handicap." 

It certainly looked as though luck were with 
our rivals for good. As the months went by in 
France they were forever outstripping our fel- 
lows, both in collective and individual contests. 
The spirit of emulation which at first was felt 
only among the rank and file gradually began to 
pass upward to the ofiicers. 

Larry Douglas was the first of our upper crust 
to really have just cause for spite against them. 
Larry was the junior subaltern of the battery, 
a curly-haired, rosy-cheeked boy who had a way 
with him with the ladies. Larry was a great 
heart-smasher and possessed a record through- 
out the entire army. 

153 



THE REAL FRONT 

Such things not being in my line, I am unable 
to explain Larry's forte. But I was told by Bob 
Hanson that Larry possessed rare powers of con- 
quest with the daughters of Eve. 

Bob said that Larry did not care for an;^i:hing 
that looked easy, but \vhen a regular queen came 
along he always set out to attach her to his 
triumphal chariot. 

In Armentieres, one of our gay towns behind 
the Hues, there dwelt a certain beautiful maiden 
named Camille who was known as the belle of 
the western front. I have been all up and down 
the line myself in the course of my two years 
in France, and even though I do pose as a savant, 
I will aver unhesitatingly that Camille of Ar- 
mentieres was the most charming young lady that 
I had seen in that land where they are very fair 
and very plenty. 

Of com'se Larry Douglas baited his hook and 
set out sweethearting with Camille on every pos- 
sible occasion. Our gims were in action for a 
long time behind the trenches near that favored 
town, and Larry had ample opportunity to cult- 
ivate what they called in Armentieres his affaire 
de coBur. 

On his day off Larry would come down from 
the observation post covered with mud, his face 
dirty and unshaven, his clothes ragged, unkempt, 

154 



'*THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

and lousy. He looked like a perfect burlesque 
of a hobo. But when he had bathed in the warm 
tub which Hurtle, his servant, had prepared for 
him, and was washed and clothed anew, one did 
not wonder that little Camille's eyes sparkled at 
the sight of him. With his tight-fitting tunic, 
salmon-pink riding-breeches, polished leather, 
shining brass, and rosy cheeks, he was a comely 
officer withal for any girl to look upon. 

We all entered heart and soul into Larry s love 
affair. It appealed to our sporting instincts, and 
our vanity as a battery was tickled to think that 
our junior subaltern, under the nose of the whole 
army, could walk off with the belle of the western 
front. This was due cause for pride for any unit. 

But Larry, the invincible heart-smasher, was 
destined to meet his Waterloo, and of all things 
at the hands of a New-Brunswicker. It hap- 
pened one evening in the Estaminet de Com- 
merce, in the Grand Palace d'Armentieres. The 
Estaminet de Commerce was the social center of 
the town. There officers were wont to fore- 
gather for their evening glass of wine and a bask- 
ing in the sunshine of Camille's smile. 

Several of the boys in our especial set were 
seated at a table over a bottle of Heidsiec while 
we admiringly watched the gallant Larry in ac- 
tion on the battle-field of the heart. 

155 



THE REAL FRONT 

Bob Hanson told me that he knew Larry was 
winning out, because he could see the love light 
flashing back in Canaille's starry eyes. 

"I'm not so sure about that," I answered, 
"but I'll take your word for it. Bob. Affairs 
like this are not in my line, you know." 

"Well, don't you worry, my spring chicken," 
warned Bob in tones that I have since remem- 
bered. "These affairs will be in your line some 
time, when you'll see one of these big-eyed baby 
dolls, you'll know, all right, when the love light's 
in her eyes. I tell you that's a sure sign. Larry, 
here, has cut 'em all out; he's got it over Camille 
like a tent. No one else would have a look-in 
now." 

"Well," said MacGivern, "I'm glad for the 
sake of B Battery that we're winning something, 
anyway." 

Just then Lieut. Ready McNutt of D Battery 
entered. Ready had begun his career as lady- 
killer in the pie socials in the north woods of 
New Brunswick. As such he knew neither mod- 
esty nor shame. He strode into the estaminet 
with the assurance on his face which said, "I have 
seen Camille, and she is mine." 

If Bob Hanson thought that Larry had it over 
Camille like a tent, I had my doubts. Unversed 
as I was in the ways of the fair sex, I had at least 

156 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

learned that women, war, and weather are three 
uncertainties of life. Therefore, I held my judg- 
ment in abeyance regarding all such matters. 
But now I knew that Larry was destined to 
defeat. 

Ready McNutt bore on his arm an officer's 
helmet of the Prussian Guard. The patent 
leather and the brass spike were shining, while 
the great gilt eagles were splashed across it 
with dazzling effect. Camille's eyes began to 
flash at that most prized helmet, and whose eyes 
would not flash at such a trophy? 

Ready McNutt had taken an undue advantage, 
but all is fair in love and war, and, as he leaned 
against the bar, Larry was gently pushed aside 
by unseen forces, and New Brunswick's Cupid 
had become the king of hearts. The defeated 
youth still hung about, for the sake of keeping 
up appearances. But we on the side lines all 
knew that in the affair of the heart he had taken 
the count, and the prize of the victor had passed 
to another. 

Ready McNutt hung on to his helmet as long 
as his iron will would permit. But even his iron 
will at last went down before the belle of the 
western front. Ready had intended to send that 
helmet home; it was indeed a wondrous souvenir. 
But the minute Camille's eyes fell upon it it 

157 



THE REAL FRONT 

was hers, and Ready *s heart, of course, was 
thrown in to boot along with the helmet. 

After an exasperatingly long delay, and a 
battle fought by eyes and looks, the coveted 
helmet changed owners, and the transfer was 
sealed by a kiss. 

This was too much for Larry Douglas. The 
vanquished subaltern stamped out of the room, 
and we of B Battery left our bottle of Heidsiec 
to join our fallen champion. 

I will not repeat what was said by the young 
bloods of B Battery that night regarding their 
brethren of D Battery. To be defeated by our 
rivals in fistic combat and in gunnery was shame 
enough, but to go down before them in love was 
ignominy indeed. From the officers' mess down, 
our entire personnel was out for vengeance. 
We bided our day and nursed our grievance, 
while every time we met D Battery they rubbed 
it in. 

"Our day is coming," said the major, grimly, 
and every man in our battery devotedly echoed 
that prayer. Red Maclsaac echoed it twice. 

On several occasions when Red Maclsaac en- 
countered Arch Roary in the same drinking- 
place Red was seized with violent fits and had to 
leave the place hurriedly. I was riding with 
Red along the main road on one occasion when we 

158 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

met Arch Roary acting as lead driver on an am- 
munition limber coming toward us. Red turned 
sharply off on a side-road, though he had no 
business in that direction, and his face took on 
such a purple hue that I feared lest he should die 
from apoplexy. 

So we nursed our wrath and bided our day. At 
last our day of vengeance came. It was the 
horse-show of the brigade held at Ouderdom. 

We had turned out an ammunition limber 
with six horses that could not be beaten in the 
whole second army. The lead team especially 
were our pride. They were a pair of sixteen- 
and-a-half-hands imperial roans named Emperor 
Nero and Queen Alexandra. 

Bob Hanson, captain of our wagon-lines, said 
that he never saw such a pair of artillery draft- 
horses in his life as the two roans, and Bob was 
some judge of horseflesh. 

The first event that day was the jumping con- 
test for officers' chargers. Ready McNutt and 
Larry Douglas had a tie at five and a half feet. 
They tried five feet eight, but both chargers 
balked at that, until the event was declared a 
draw. If Larry's charger had known hovv^ much 
spite his master was putting into that contest he 
would have taken anything up to seven feet just 
for the sake of the honor of the battery. 

159 



THE REAL FRONT 

There were several other events, such as the 
signaler race, a tent-pegging contest, a mounted 
wrestling contest, and a dispatch-riders' race. 
But the great event of the whole horse-show 
was the exhibition of artillery draft-horses. 

As our prize outfit left the wagon-lines every 
man already saw the blue ribbon flying proudly 
from the browbands of Emperor Nero and 
Queen Alexandra. 

"Mon, mon, did ye effer see such horses .f^" 
exclaimed Quartermaster-sergeant MacQuirtle as 
Tom Dupont and the other drivers put their 
teams through a few maneuvers in an adjacent 
field. 

"Go it, boys! Me heart's wi' ye," exclaimed 
the wild little Scotchman, jumping on to a fence 
and waving his cap in great glee. 

"Soak it to 'em, Tom," yelled Thirsty Thorn 
and Moldy Macintosh together, as they stood, 
arm in arm, regarding the team that was "sure 
to wipe the earth up with every plug of a horse 
that D Battery could get together." 

Coming on to the parade-field, where the 
horse-show was held. Emperor Nero and his con- 
sort seemed to feel a sudden touch of imperial 
pride; lifting their knees high, and throwing their 
heels like old Roman chargers, they dashed before 
the eyes of many of the big ones of our army. 

160 



'*THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

Gray and peppery. General Fitzclarence, him- 
self an old-time gunner, adjusted his monocle 
and, watching that omnipotent Jehu, Driver 
Dupont, and his fiery steeds, he exclaimed: 
"Excellent, excellent! Finest thing I've seen 
to-day. Yes, by Gad, that minds me of me 
own days in the old horse gunners." 

Our major, who was standing by, and over- 
heard the general, winked at Bob. 

"Yes," exclaimed Bob, indulging in his old 
expression, "we've got it over 'em all like a 
tent." 

Just before the chariot-race of the day was to 
come off, when all our hearts were beating high, 
Emperor Nero, who had been disporting himself 
like a royal gentleman, was suddenly smitten 
with one of his frequent attacks of local insanity. 

Emperor Nero, like many another perfect horse, 
had one imperfection. He had knocked his 
poll on a troop-train, and at times he was quite 
crazy. Now, of all times, he had to come on 
with one of these attacks. Lashing out right 
and left with his heels, he refused to stand for 
the judges who wished to look him over. 

This was too much for the temper of Driver 
Dupont, who was formerly one of Roosevelt's 
Rough Riders. Dupont, according to his own 
words, was foaled in the saddle, and he wasn't 

II 161 



THE REAL FRONT 

reckoning on taking any back talk from any 
army horse that ever stepped. 

Enraged beyond control by Emperor Nero's 
arrogance, Driver Dupont buried the rowels of 
his spurs in the flanks of that fiery beast, saying 
between clenched teeth, "I'll show ye who's mas- 
ter on board here," at which our blue-ribbon ex- 
hibition disappeared in a flying cloud. 

Tom was master, all right. But it was late in 
the afternoon and the horse-show was over when 
we saw him again, and what Thirsty Thorn ir- 
reverently referred to as "the plugs of B Bat- 
tery" pranced home with the blue ribbon. 

After that last humiliation the major said, 
"What's the use of trying?" 

Two years passed over us in France. We be- 
came seasoned veterans. There were two things 
above all else that our battery learned during those 
two years — ^they learned to hate the Germans, 
and they learned a real rivalry for D Battery. 

When the rival units were in action side by side 
in the Ypres salient, it was a standing joke in the 
front line as to which battery was answering 
first to S O S calls. Hellfire MacDougal, who 
claimed to have the world's championship for 
quick fire in response to S O S signals, claimed 
that he had beaten the New Brunswick gun 
crews by three-fifths of a second. 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

Ready McNutt was just as sure that his boys 
from the Miramichi had two-fifths of a second 
on Hellfire's prize crew. 

When an S O S rocket went up in the night, 
there were two things that put the lightning 
into B and D Batteries — first, of course, the cry 
for help from the infantry, and second, the 
rivalry which they had for each other. 

Out of a sound sleep, clad only in their B. V. 
D.'s and boots, the crews would vomit forth from 
their dugouts into their gun-pits, and have their 
field-pieces roaring almost ere one had realized 
what had happened. 

The general often used to remark at the train- 
ing-area on the clockwork efficiency of the two 
units, and at their whirlwind precision at bat- 
tery maneuvers. To see either B or D Battery 
coming into action at the gallop was a sight for 
the gods. 

General Fitzclarence complimented both units 
personally on their wonderful showing. In an 
army order he attributed their efficiency to the 
splendid leadership of their officers. But the 
men and officers themselves knew better. They 
traced their efficiency to the rivalry which began 
in that unfinished fight on board the Colonist 
Special for Berlin. 

B Battery first came into action on the Somme, 

163 



THE REAL FRONT 

in a position known as "Sausage Valley." Be- 
yond Sausage Valley and farther forward was 
Marsh Valley. One day, in company with Larry 
Douglas and Hellfire MacDougal, I set out for a 
reconnaissance of a forward gun position, on the 
advanced crest of Marsh Valley. There on a 
deserted hillside we already found a battery in 
action. We thought that we ourselves had 
shown enterprise worthy of mention in army or- 
ders in thus stealing a march on all the others 
and preparing to move ahead on our own. But 
here already, with their guns dug in and their 
gun-pits complete, was another battery. 

We were contemplating this amazing spectacle 
of a battery already in action, a thousand yards 
in advance of all the other guns of the army, 
when Ready McNutt suddenly popped his head 
out of a gun-pit and regarded us with feigned 
alarm. 

"Hello! What are you herring-chokers doing 
away up here, all alone? Ain't you afraid a fire- 
cracker will go ofl? You better beat it quick 
and get in out of this atmosphere, or you'll get 
cold feet. Take it from me, you want to get 
back to the base where you belong. Cold feet 
come natural to fellers from 'way back like you 
chaps of B Battery." 

Hellfire^MacDougal then let out all the stops 

164 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

in his organ, and a blue haze seemed to rise while 
he swore and cursed for the glory of Nova Scotia. 
He forgot that he was a sergeant, he forgot that 
Ready McNutt was an officer. All he remem- 
bered was the endless humiliation which our 
rivalry with D Battery had brought us. Hellfire 
earned his name by his ability in brimstone lan- 
guage. But in his effort that afternoon he ex- 
celled all former outbursts, and even the cold- 
blooded Ready McNutt had to lower his head 
and seek shelter. 

We advanced our guns five times on the 
Somme. Each time the task seemed more ar- 
duous and the obstacles in our way more in- 
superable. 

It was late on in November that I got orders 
to make the last advance with our guns. The 
winter rains were well upon us and the chalky 
soil of the Somme was transformed into a sticky 
bog through which the movement of guns and 
material was well-nigh impossible. 

At midnight I stood upon the heights of 
Pozieres Cemetery and gazed down across the 
blackness to where a scintillant flare marked out 
the line of the trenches. 

We had been moving forward ever since the 
dusk of early nightfall. In seven hours of con- 
tinuous striving we had progressed only half a 

165 



THE REAL FRONT 

mile, and we had still another mile to go. We 
were only advancing the left section, for which 
small mercy I was truly thankful, but both guns 
of the left section at that moment were up to the 
hips in mud, and the prospects of getting them to 
move again seemed to grow steadily less. 

Hellfire MacDougal was there, as usual, stand- 
ing in the breach with all that the human power 
of human language could do to urge those howit- 
zers ahead. At such moments the untiring and 
perfervid Hellfire was an inspiration to any 
battery. 

"I ain't much of a swearing man meself," said 
Quartermaster-sergeant MacQuirtle. "I'm an 
elder in the kirk at Judiac, and may God forgive 
me, but I ken the sound of that strong language 
in me ain heart this verra minit." 

"Wish I^d some of the guys that sit around in 
clubs on plush-bottom chairs and smoke Corona 
Coronas and wonder why they don't get ahead 
faster at the front out here to-night," said Larry 
Douglas. "I'd shove their wooden heads into 
that puddin' of mud under No. 1 gun, and then 
they'd blame soon know why we don't get 
along." 

Two hours before the dawn found us still more 
cheerless and still more hopeless, but struggling 
on inch by inch and foot by foot. Let the man 

166 



**THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

who would learn patience join us in such a task 
and, with the boys who advance the guns, he will 
realize Napoleon's words, "There shall be no 
Alps." 

By this time we had made over a mile advance, 
but there was still almost a half-mile to go, and 
with the weariness of spirit that comes at such 
an hour we knew the bitterness of those who still 
fight on when hope is gone. Every man was 
gritting his teeth and every ounce of energy was 
now drawn upon our nerve. 

Quartermaster-sergeant MacQuirtle had grown 
querulous and had ceased to be responsible for 
his speech, which broke out violently at times. 

"Stuck again," said Driver Dupont, dismount- 
ing from Emperor Nero, who was the only live 
horse left of all our sixteen teams. 

Red Maclsaac here left his horse's rein in the 
hand of a gun driver and darted off on a recon- 
naissance of trails, saying, as he left, "There 
must be some harder bottom somewhere abouts." 

We were all engrossed in the task of lifting No. 
2 gun out of a slough when Red Maclsaac re- 
turned. He was running back in such frantic 
haste that I rushed out to meet him in alarm, 
wondering if we had got into No Man's Land 
or if the Germans were stealing upon us. 

With that look which we see only on the faces 

167 



THE REAL FRONT 

of those who bear portentous news, Red grasped 
my shoulder to support his breathless body and, 
pointing into the darkness, he exclaimed, with 
tones of awe, "D Battery is stuck in the mud, 
just two hundred yards to our left/' 

Quartermaster-sergeant MacQuirtle heard the 
intelligence and repeated it to the rest of the boys. 
The chaps who a minute before were dead beat 
and lifeless now trembled with excitement. 

"Our day will come, our day will come,'* 
panted Red Maclsaac, repeating the supplication 
which had been on his lips for over two years. 

"Get mounted the drivers," was the order, and 
drivers never mounted with more snap or deter- 
mination. Our day of reckoning had come. It 
came at the eleventh hour, when our bodies were 
weak and our horses were spent, but it found 
our spirits unbroken. There was now only one 
soul in all that crowd of men. There was only 
one will and one purpose, that was to win, at last, 
a fair and honest victory against the worthy 
rivals that had seared their name upon our soul. 

Driver Dupont whispered something in the 
ears of his imperial roans. They say the word 
he whispered was, "D Battery." Emperor Nero 
snorted at the word, probably in a shame of 
memory from the horse-show. Whatever the 
magic word was, it sent the great roans rearing 

168 



"THE DAY OF RECKONING" 

and plunging, and the traces strained and tight- 
ened through every tugging team. The guns 
not only budged, but moved — nay, more, they 
marched, and within an hour we had arrived at 
our goal. 

"Now we'll go and pull D Battery out of the 
hole," exclaimed Red Maclsaac, and on his face 
there shone a light of joy that I had never seen 
before. D Battery had still a quarter of a mile 
to go when we approached them with our prof- 
fered assistance. They were in no mood to lose 
their championship in sweetness of temper, after 
all that night of superhuman strivings. But 
our chaps were buoyant with the flush of victory, 
and they spared their rivals nothing as they 
rubbed it in. 

As shrapnel was bursting about, it was im- 
perative that D Battery should be got ahead 
as quickly as possible. Red Maclsaac offered 
help to Arch Roary MacCabe, but his good of- 
fices were greeted by a flood of fierce invective 
by the former boss of the Miramichi. 

Suddenly a cloud of shrapnel burst over his 
head, and Arch Roary went plunging out of his 
saddle with a curse. A number of his pals 
rushed to the prostrate soldier. Red Maclsaac 
was the first to reach him. 

"Let me take him! Let me take him!" he im- 

169 



THE REAL FRONT 

plored to the sergeant-major who would thrust 
him away. Some one grabbed his arms, but he 
tore himself free, exclaiming: "He was me 
enemy, I tell ye, I stood up to him when he was 
up, and now I'll stand by him when he's down." 

The others gave way to this plea, and as 
tenderly as a woman Red Maclsaac raised the 
wounded man and placed him across his saddle; 
then he himself mounted. With his foe of that 
unfinished fight which had precipitated an end- 
less warfare in two batteries, he set off at an 
easy canter for the dressing-station. B Battery 
and D Battery at last had made their day of 
reckoning. 



XI 

THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

'^T/'EA, though I walk through the Valley of 
•*■ the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil." 
With tones that rang in every heart, the padre 
uttered these words as the text of his discourse 
on that Sunday night in Albert. 

The cellar of the ruined distillery serving as a 
church was crowded. A row of gas-flares shed 
a fitful light across the faces of the soldiers. 
Earnest, sad, and reverent, those faces seemed to 
hang upon the padre's words. Outside, and just 
beyond them in the night. Death Valley lay, 
with its horror of an awful darkness. A far-off 
muffled roar told that the Angels of Death were 
abroad in the valley. There was not a man in 
that crowd that had not felt the horror of Death 
Valley. Many of their pals had halted there 
forever, and many of them there had raced against 
the dawn in frantic terror, lest daylight should 
find them in that dread passage with their doom. 
In a world of peace, that distillery cellar with 

171 



THE REAL FRONT 

its piled-up vats would have been an incongruous 
place for a church. But soldiers, dwelling on the 
fringes of eternity, require no ecclesiastical de- 
\'ices to produce a worshipful spirit. 

In all that throng of serious men, one face was 
forever arresting my gaze; that was the face of 
C\Til Hallam. He sat where the flickering light 
shone full upon him, his pale features accentuated 
by the white flare, his blue eyes fixed upon the 
preacher with an infinite yearning. As I gazed 
upon him I saw the e\'idence of one who had a 
warfare in his heart. Happy is the soldier who 
fights only with the Hun. But CvtH Hallam 
knew a battle-field within more poignant than 
the battle-field without. 

I found myself that night gazing upon him 
again and again as he sat beneath that flaring 
hght. Over his face there passed the ever-chang- 
ing pictures of his soul. At one time his sad 
eyes were radiant, as though that melancholy 
cellar held for him apocalyptic \'isions. 

Gilhooly of the Inneskillen Dragoons and Cor- 
poral Tompkins of the Northumberland Hussars 
were breathing hea\Tly and blankly gazing at the 
padre. "\Miat vast gulfs separated those stolid 
fighting-men from the fair angel spirit that shone 
in Cyril Hallam's face I 

As the padre came to the end of his sermon he 

17£ 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

told how that in Death Valley God would give us 
all stout hearts and make us brave in every 
crisis. At these words a shadow flitted over 
Hallam's face. It was not so easy for him to 
accept that which the crowd had taken for 
granted. 

After two years of soldiering Cyril Hallam re- 
mained an individualist. As such he was a 
phenomenon, for the army tends to v/eld all men 
together. It creates a spirit of collectivism; 
with this spirit men, thinking only of the regi- 
ment, forget themselves, and go over the top 
fearlessly. 

Cyril Hallam, in spite of all his soldiering, 
could not cease to be an individualist, and this 
individualism caused him pain, of which his 
brother oflficers never dreamed. With the others 
there was no question. If an awful crisis came, 
of course they would all stand up to it like men 
or they would all go down together. "The 
strength of the wolf is the pack, and the strength 
of the pack is the wolf." This was the undoubt- 
ing philosophy of Larry Douglas and Tommy 
McGivern, the other two subalterns of Cyril's 
battery. 

But Cyril could never see it that way. He 
knew not the strength that others gained from 
the crowd spirit. For him as an individualist all 

173 



THE REAL FRONT 

the old doubts and fears remained. If a great 
testing-time should come, he knew that he 
would have to meet it alone. 

Despite his long time in France, Cyril had 
never yet encountered a real crisis. His going 
and coming had always been well ordered. 
Some time, he knew that he must meet an awful 
testing, and in it he feared that he would fail. 
He used to say to himseK: "Some time I know I 
will be really up against it, and I'll prove a coward. 
It's this fear of fear that keeps me trembling." 

Cyril Hallam was of a shy and reticent dis- 
position, but to Bob Hanson, as to a kindred 
spirit, he had told much of his life and inner 
strivings. He was born a weak and timid child, 
with a cringing from the boisterousness of other 
children. His early school-days for him had been 
a hell, of which only his mother knew. He grew 
up with a tender and esthetic nature and a 
shrinking from the hard ways of the world. He 
had been trained as an artist, and just as his 
career was opening up with soft sunshine and 
happiness the war broke out. 

With that rare spirit which can so easily give 
itself for an ideal, Cyril Hallam had enlisted at 
the first call. The saddest tragedy of all had 
been the parting from his mother, who could not 
see eye to eye with her darling boy. Every one 

174 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

had told him that he was not cut out for a soldier. 
But he was fixed in his own mind, and nothing 
could turn him from his purpose. 

At the training-camp he endured agonies for 
months, only to be told that because of physical 
deficiencies he could never go to France. But 
he stuck with grim determination until, with the 
lowering of the physical standard and the im- 
proving of his own physique, at last he was en- 
raptured by the sight of his name on a draft list 
for the front. 

He never could adjust himself to the rough and 
impersonal life of the army. His finer feelings 
were always being shocked, and he was misun- 
derstood by his brother oJQScers. 

But to the few who saw within his heart, he 
was an angel in khaki. To chat with him for a 
few moments was to catch again a flashing 
glimpse of that world of idealism and of love, 
so easily forgotten by most of us in the baser 
world of war. 

At the close of divine worship Cyril Hallam 
greeted his old friend Bob Hanson with a glad 
smile. "Do come around to the wagon-lines with 
me, old man," he pleaded. "We've got the 
couchiest billet in Albert, and I'm dying to talk 
with some one who can speak of other things 
besides this next infernal push." 

175 



THE REAL FRONT 

"Sure," answered Bob. "Our new billet is 
rotten enough. I'll come around and look at 
yours, and if it takes my eye I'll get the town 
major to kick you out and make a worthy place 
for me." 

Cyril could not get away from the subject of 
the padre's sermon. As soon as they were 
seated on a couple of ammunition-boxes, before 
a brazier fire in the billet, he plunged into a dis- 
cussion of the thoughts which it had prompted. 

"I wish that I wasn't such a natural-born 
coward," he exclaimed, deprecatingly. 

"Nonsense!" answered Bob. "You're a bit 
more modest than the rest of us, that's all." 

"No," said Cyril; "you chaps are able to buck 
up against whatever happens. But I am always 
haunted by this fear of failure. It used to be 
bad enough at Ypres. When we left there I 
thought that we might find a better place for a 
spell, but this is a thousand times worse. With 
this ceaseless run of battles, I am sure that some- 
thing awful is impending for me." 

"That's all in your mind," advised Bob. 
"You're allowing your imagination to run away 
with you. Take a tip from me and forget to- 
morrow. A soldier's got no business with any- 
thing but to-day." 

"Yes, that's all right for you," Cyril answered, 

176 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

"but a to-morrow wherein I should fail is some- 
thing I cannot help fearing. The other day I 
stood on the heights by Pozieres Cemetery and 
gazed down into Death Valley. An ammimition- 
limber was moving up toward the guns. The 
batteries on Beaumont Hummel opened up upon 
them, and there before my eyes, scarcely half a 
mile away, I saw that gallant bunch of men and 
horses blown to pieces. 

" The thing has haunted me ever since. Every 
time I go into the valley at night with ammuni- 
tion for the guns, I am afraid that I may get 
stuck by some accident, and that the dawn may 
still find me in that awful place. I tell you, old 
man, Death Valley troubles me by night and day. 
It's nothing tangible I fear, but just the awful 
thought that I may prove a coward there." 

Just then an orderly entered and, saluting, an- 
nounced, "A message from the forward guns. 



sir." 



Hallam's face grew pale and his hand trembled 
as he reached for the fateful message. His bat- 
tery had two guns, situated in an advanced and 
perilous position, at the far end of Death Valley, 
just fifty yards behind the front-line trench. 
The guns had been moved to this far-forward 
position preliminary to an attack that had been 
imminent for several days. 

12 177 



THE REAL FRONT 

The message which Hallam read was in the 
form of an order from the brigade headquarters 
to the battery commander, stating that the 
bombardment preliminary to the "next push" 
would begin on the following evening at seven- 
thirty. 

The brigade order read: "Your battery must 
have at the forward guns at least one thousand 
rounds H. E. The battery commander will see 
that there is no shortage from the specified 
figure. Ammunition states must be in by noon 
to-morrow." Below the brigade order the bat- 
tery commander had written: "To O. C. Wagon- 
lines: For your information and necessary ac- 
tion. Get limbers through at all costs before 
noon to-morrow." 

Hallam knew, by memorandum appended, that 
another four hundred rounds would be necessary 
to give the required total, to be shown on am- 
munition state of the following noon. 

On account of Death Valley being under ob- 
servation by the German batteries by day, the 
hauling of ammunition was done at night. This 
was a long and perilous task, on account of the 
state of the roads from shell-holes and mud, the 
wet season being well advanced. 

As all his horses were dead beat from an 
arduous two weeks of advancing guns and ma- 

178 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

terial it was impossible to take the road for 
several hours. An orderly summoned the ser- 
geant-major, and as he entered Bob Hanson de- 
parted. To the sergeant-major Hallam gave his 
orders: "You will have reveille sounded at two- 
thirty A.M. Take eight limbers, eight horses to a 
limber. Have teams hooked in and ready to 
move off at three-fifteen. Send an orderly im- 
mediately to the ammunition-dump, and tell 
them to be ready to supply us with four hun- 
dred rounds H. E. at three-thirty." 

"Very good," said the sergeant-major, and 
soon his clinking spurs were singing over the 
cobblestones in the courtyard and his strident 
voice was fixing orders in the drowsy heads of 
trumpeter, cook, and night sentry. 

It was now close to midnight and the chill 
November air brought grim reminders of winter 
campaigning. Hallam was sleeping on the stone 
floor of a shattered mansion, on the fringes of 
the town of Albert. The wind came in gusts 
through a great shell-hole in the wall, and from 
a rent in the roof the stars appeared. 

But no matter how inhospitable these quarters 
might seem, his sleeping-bag was his happy 
home. He buckled the straps tight to keep out 
the wind, pulled down his Balaklava helmet over 
his head, and in a twinkling was asleep. 

179 



THE REAL FRONT 

In his sleep, Cyril Hallam was troubled by 
wild nightmare. Death Valley haunted him in 
his dreams. He seemed to be forever racing 
against the dawn on that dread passage. Then 
there came a break in his dream and he beheld 
Death Valley in the sunshine. Up and down the 
valley the green grass was growing, and the 
flowers were blooming with sweet perfume; 
daisies, anemones, and buttercups were there, 
and high in heaven he heard the voice of a lark 
singing of the springtime. Everything was se- 
rene with peace and beauty. Surely this was 
not Death Valley! While he doubted the place, 
he saw beside a warbling brook a little wooden 
cross. He bent over to read, and there beheld 
his own name, painted in black letters on that 
scant memorial, "Lieut. Cyril Hallam, dead on 
the Field of Honor." 

From the shock of this apparition he awoke 
with a start, to hear from the courtyard the soar- 
ing voice of the trumpeter sounding reveille. "I 
bought a horse — I bought a cow — I bought a 
d-o-n-k-e-y !" The silver voice sounded above 
the soft night winds, and Cyril Hallam heard it as 
one who hears the note of doom. For over two 
years, each day for him had begun with that self- 
same call. But this morning he listened to it 
with a cold and shivering dread. 

180 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

For a few moments Hallam lay in his sleeping- 
bag and thought of the many cheerless dawns to 
which he had arisen since joining the army. He 
thought of that dark September morning, long 
ago, when the alarm-clock went off in his little 
room at home and summoned him to the sad 
parting from his mother. That for him had been 
the bitterest moment of all his life, and this 
morning he likened unto it. But the same stern 
voice of duty whispered in his ear, and suddenly 
the door burst open with a rush of cold wind and 
his servant announced, brusquely, "Your break- 
fast is ready, sir." 

It was a bitter-cold morning, with a high wind 
that set one shivering; but a warm breakfast 
offset the rigors of the November wind. His 
servant then helped him adjust revolver and 
trench -lamp to his Sam Browne belt, and 
with gas-helmet case slung over his shoulder, 
and wearing a steel helmet, he sallied forth 
fully accoutered for the exigencies of the 
front. 

The horse-lines were all astir; drivers were put- 
ting the finishing touches to their harness, while 
others already had their teams hooked into the 
limbers. 

"It's a nice dark morning for your run through 
to the guns, sir," announced the sergeant-major, 

181 



THE REAL FRONT 

cheerily, as Hallam flashed his light upon a busy 
group which he was superintending. 

"Yes, the morning's all right," he answered, 
"but there's very little darkness to spare, that's 
the trouble." 

"Oh, I guess you'll make it, all right," the 
sergeant-major laughed. "If you don't, it '11 be 
a nice little bit of running the gantlet, that's 
all." 

Hallam did not laugh; he was tremulous as an 
aspen, w^th a sickening feeling gripping at his 
throat. He persuaded himself that he did not 
flinch before the prospect of death, but the fear 
that shook his frame and made him sick was the 
possibility that he might prove a coward. 
"This is the morning when I shall fail," he said 
to himself, as the last vestige of his confidence 
seemed to flee from him. 

Out of the darkness his groom trotted up with 
his horses. That morning Hallam was riding 
his first charger, ^Miite Stockings, a thoroughbred 
Irish hunter, which had been commandeered from 
a gentleman's riding-establishment in England. 
WTiite Stockings was reputed one of the finest 
chargers in the division. He was a big black 
horse, with white stockings about his four hoofs, 
whence his name. 

At 3.15 sharp all the teams were hooked in and 

182 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

the last N. C. O. had reported his subsection 
ready. A few crisp orders and the column was 
silently filing off into the thoroughfares of Albert. 
At 3.30 they trotted into the ammunition-dump 
at the other end of the town, and, under the 
direction of an officer there, began to load the 
limbers with the necessary 4.5 H. E. shells and 
cartridges. By four o'clock the column was on 
the road again with the complete allotment of 
ammunition. 

Through the deserted and ghost-like town of 
Albert they passed again, by the ruined church 
where, from the high steeple, a figure of the 
Virgin and the Child hangs in midair, suspended 
above the street. The natives of the Somme 
area say that when that statue falls peace will 
come. Mindful of that rumor. Bombardier Judd 
cast a wistful eye on the precarious and eery 
figure, announcing to the nearest driver: "It's 
time some of us blokes climbed up to the steeple 
and gave that there ^gger a high dive. I'd like 
to see 'er hit de pavement right now." 

"Same here!" assented the driver. "She can 
come down right now and close the show. I've 
had enough." 

Sergeant Dugmore here trotted up to the head 
of the column, inspecting everything with a crit- 
ical eye. He was the senior sergeant in charge, 

183 



THE REAL FRONT 

and to him Hallam unfolded the schedule which 
he hoped to make that morning. 

The main road was comparatively safe at all 
times, but beyond the village of Pozieres they 
had to turn off into Death Valley. There by 
daylight they would be under observation of the 
German batteries. It was, therefore, imperative 
that they should get over this stretch before the 
dawn. 

"We should be at the end of the main road, 
Sergeant, by five o'clock. Allowing haK an hour 
for the run through the valley to the guns, and 
half an hour for unloading, our last limber should 
be returning by six, and out of the zone of ob- 
servation and back on the main road by half 
past six." 

"Oh, we'll make it all right, sir," said Dug- 
more in confident tones. Sergeant Dugmore 
was a stolid, optimistic fellow, who never trou- 
bled himself about threatening dangers until 
they arrived. Sufficient unto the day is the 
evil thereof, was the way in which he disposed 
of future perils. Hallam that morning envied 
his sergeant in his poise of a calm and unimagi- 
native spirit. 

Between Dugmore and Hallam there were a 
true understanding and a real affection. Dug- 
more was a typical English soldier, one of the 

184 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

Old Army, of that splendid, unchanging type, the 
same in fair weather and in foul. 

With the infallible instinct of the old soldier, 
Dugmore recognized in Cyril Hallam a gentle- 
man, which was the first requisite of an oflScer. 
With this instinct, the old British soldiers would 
sooner trust themselves under the leadership of 
an eighteen-year-old school-boy, just out of Eton, 
than under a grizzled old sergeant-major of forty 
years' campaigning. It was the difference in 
spirit that counted, and Dugmore was well aware 
of the high spirit of his young lieutenant. The 
very quality that made his brother officers doubt 
him made his men have faith in Hallam. They 
felt instinctively that his fears were for them and 
not for himself. 

All the men under his command felt a deep af- 
fection for Cyril Hallam. He was an officer who 
treated them like soldiers, and yet remembered 
that they had the hearts of men. When Driver 
Holmes's father was killed it was Cyril Hallam 
that comforted the lad. Hallam was walking 
through the horse-lines late at night when he 
heard some one sobbing. He peered along the 
picketing rope, and there, with his head against 
Black Nige's mane, he found the bereaved 
youngster, sobbing out his sorrow against the 
neck of his faithful horse. It seemed that Nige, 

X85 



THE REAL FRONT 

with his soft eyes and his knowing, sympathetic 
ears, was the forlorn youth's only comforter. 
But there in the darkness of the horse-lines 
Hallam's arm had stolen around the sobbing 
frame and Driver Holmes had discovered that 
his officer was also his big brother. 

If Cyril Hallam could have seen, in the gloom 
that morning, the affection with which his men 
regarded him as he galloped up and down the 
column, he would have felt much comfort, for 
he would have realized that with their love 
for him they would have followed him through 
hell. 

But he saw none of this. He was haunted only 
by the brooding thought that he might fail his 
men in the crisis just ahead. 

Everything went well for the first mile along 
the rue de Baupaume; then an accident drew 
Hallam from his introspective thoughts — one of 
his limbers, in turning too sharply, to avoid a 
tractor-engine, went over the embankment and 
broke a pole and burst two breast collars. He 
waited to superintend the adjustment of the new 
pole which the limber carried in reserve, instruct- 
ing Sergeant Dugmore to carry on straight ahead 
through the town of Pozieres. 

When the work of repair was completed and 
the limber returned to the road he galloped ahead 

186 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

to join the main column, telling the limber to 
follow under a N. C. O. 

Great was Hallam's consternation to find the 
whole main column held up on the road, only 
half a mile ahead. A 9.2 battery, moving up 
ahead with caterpillar tractor-engine, obstructed 
one side of the road, while a field-gun was 
broken down on the other side, completely block- 
ing the right-of-way. A group of gunners and 
drivers were working desperately to clear the 
disabled gun and limbers. While this was in 
progress an overanxious driver in the rear, in 
attempting to move up, had crashed a general- 
service wagon against the tractor-engine and 
smashed a wheel. 

Sergeant Dugmore made frantic efforts to clear 
away the obstruction, while Hellfire MacDougal 
poured a perfervid stream of blasphemy on the 
heads of garrison gunners, who were forever 
blocking all the roads on God Almighty's earth. 

In the midst of all this chaos Hallam moved 
calmly, his quiet voice now and again uttering 
words of direction. His serene appearance was 
the inverse expression of the raging panic in his 
soul. During this awful hour of waiting he suf- 
fered agonies. Every precious minute that 
passed meant added danger to his men and 
horses. He gazed at his wrist- watch with hor- 

187 



THE REAL FRONT 

ror, and as the minutes passed a feeling of hope- 
lessness began to settle upon him. 

The obstruction of the road was not cleared 
for over an hour, and it was nearly six when they 
were on the move again. By this time they 
should have been just leaving the guns, with less 
than half an hour of darkness to get them safely 
tln-ough Death Valley. But, on account of un- 
avoidable delay, they had not even begun the 
trip into the valley. 

Through the ruinea village of Pozieres the 
limbers rattled. In the dim gray twilight could 
be descried pathetic heaps of stone which once 
were smiling homes. Here and there batteries 
of heavy guns were concealed amidst the ruins, 
and now they began to speak with slow fire, as 
if to sadden the coming of the dawn over the 
war-swept horizon. Across on the heights of 
Beaumont Hummel a certain liveliness of the 
German artillery was manifest. 

"Yes, there's Fritz all right, alive and waiting 
to give us the glad hand down Death Valley!" 
sang out Driver Dupont, the lead driver of 
No. 1 Subsection. 

Apprehensive glances were now cast upon the 
heights to the west as out across the opposite 
horizon the dawn began to steal. High and sil- 
houetted against the east was a ruined tank, over 

188 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

which the sun suddenly peeped, and the day was 
fairly upon them. 

After the sun once showed his head, not a 
word was spoken in the column. The signal to 
trot was given and every driver grimly set his 
face as the column swept forward. The ap- 
pearance of the sun, on the one hand, and the 
sound of the guns, on the other, were grim re- 
minders of the perils ahead. 

At this juncture of the road a long fire-screen 
of dust-colored canvas eight feet high had been 
raised on the left side of the road, to shield traffic 
from observation of Beaumont Hummel. In this 
way they could pass unseen by the German gun- 
ners. Finally a break in the screen occurred 
where a road turned off into Death Valley. 
Before arriving at the break in the screen, the 
column was halted. Hallam had dismounted 
the drivers to make sure of harness for the final 
dash when a young subaltern from the sappers, 
in charge of a road-building gang, approached 
him. W^ith a look of consternation upon his face, 
he inquired: 

"Surely you don't intend to go through Death 
Valley by daylight with limbers?" 

"I certainly do," answered Hallam. "The 
push begins to-morrow and our guns must have 
their supply of ammunition at all cost." 

189 



THE REAL FRONT 

" Well, take it from me, old chap, you will never 
get through that way alive," said the subaltern. 
"Some limbers went in there a half an hour ago 
and the Boche have knocked them to smithereens. 
The surgeon who went in to attend to them was 
killed, too. See, there they are carrying out his 
body now." 

Sure enough, as if to bear out his words, up 
the road and around by the screen came a group 
of Red Cross orderlies, carrying the limp form 
of the surgeon who had just been killed. 

**This road is going to be closed in daylight 
by an army order," went on the sapper, "and if 
you go through now you will not only be throw- 
ing your own men away, but you will draw fire 
on us." 

Hallam looked at the sun that would be shining 
on him as a target clear down the valley, and 
then at the German batteries firing at close 
range. Just then the picture of that little cross 
which had haunted his dream the night before 
loomed before him. Was this a premonition, a 
warning.^ If he were going to his death alone, 
he would not flinch, but should he lead his men 
to death with him.^ 

For an awful five minutes he waited in trem- 
bling vacillation. His will power seemed to 
leave him; the dangers ahead seemed to magnify 

190 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

themselves. Could he face those guns, with the 
responsibility of his men? Could he not make 
some excuse and go about another way? It was 
up to him what he should do. He would not 
then throw away his life and the lives of his men. 
He would right reverse and go around by 
Pozieres Cemetery. 

Sergeant Dugmore here galloped up on his 
big gray mare. "Well, Sergeant, what do you 
think we had better do, go around by the tram- 
way?" 

Thinking only of his own safety, the ser- 
geant answered, "Yes, sir, that will be the 
best way." 

This sounded to Hallam like a capitulation to 
danger, and he remembered that the tramway 
would take all day. The major had said, "Get 
ammunition through at all cost by noon. ' ' Here 
the great crisis which he had always feared in 
France had come, and he was going to prove a 
failure. Already a voice seemed to be whisper- 
ing in his ear, "You coward!*' 

The order "Right reverse" was trembling on 
his lip; his sergeant advised it; the sapper ad- 
vised it; his men by every fearful attitude were 
imploring for that order; his own physical safety 
seemed to cry out, "Right reverse." 

But over all these urgings, that spirit which 

191 



THE REAL FRONT 

made him an officer by divine right rose triumph- 
ant, and in a calm and even voice he announced: 

"Men, we must go ahead and finish this job. 
At any cost ammunition must be got through 
to the guns. Our only duty is to deliver the 
goods or to fall in the attempt." 

He di\-ided the column into four subsections of 
two limbers each, putting each subsection under 
a X. C. O., with instructions to move off at ten- 
minute intervals. In this way the target pre- 
sented would be smaller and more difficult to 
reach. 

"I ^*ill lead off ^ith the first subsection," he 
announced. "Each subsection will follow at re- 
spective intervals." 

A moment later Hallam's subsection was 
mounted, and with a thunder of hoofs and a roar 
of wheels they went at the full gallop down the 
hard j)ave road. A moment's halt at the screen, 
a left wheel, and out into the full observation 
of the Hun batteries they swept, out into the open 
of Death Valley in broad daylight. Was ever 
such a tempting of Pro%'idence? 

For the first few hundred yards the road was 
firm and the headlong gallop continued. Once 
in the face of the German guns, every thought of 
vacillation or uncertainty fled. Like the gambler 
playing for heavy stakes, Cyril Hallam had com- 

192 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

mitted himself to the attempt, and now his pas- 
sage toward the guns seemed to be as resistless 
as the law of gravity. 

He was surprised by the fixity of his purpose 
and the coolness of his nerves. It seemed as 
though some divine power had been imparted 
to him to help him meet his crisis. He was in 
Death Valley, facing the German guns by day- 
light, with the greatest fear of his life come true, 
and the heart of fear was gone. 

About two hundred yards beyond the screen 
his nerves, preternaturally keen, caught up a 
dim, distant hum that grew into a loud whir; 
then fifty yards to his left came a rude " Crump !" 
and a great geyser of earth and steel and smoke 
shot forty feet into the air. 

"That's a 5.9," observed Driver Dupont, be- 
side whom he was riding. "They are certainly 
opening on us with big stuff." 

The first gun was the signal for several others 
to begin registering, and from the heights of 
Beaumont Hummel several batteries began 
searching for the moving target which they pre- 
sented. On several occasions a shower of mud 
was shot upon them and a few small pieces of 
broken metal fell harmlessly upon the limbers. 

They had heard a great deal of talk about the 
German guns being erratic in their shooting. It 

13 193 



THE REAL FRONT 

was said that the rifling in their guns had been 
worn by constant firing, until accurate ranging 
was impossible. This morning certainly proved it. 

"Touching wood, sir," observed Driver Du- 
pont, "I don't see how Fritz makes so many 
lovely misses. He's carving holes in the land- 
scape all around us, just as if we were in a 
charmed circle." 

Driver Dupont was a swarthy lumber-jack 
from Maine, a most capable fellow purposely 
placed as lead driver of the first subsection. He 
was a perfect horseman, absolutely cold-blooded 
under shell-fire. He was driving a great, power- 
ful pair of roans, known as Emperor Nero and 
Queen Alexandra. Emperor Nero had knocked 
the top of his head on a troop-train, and was 
reputed to be crazy. Dupont was the only man 
in the brigade who could control the brute. A 
hell-for-leather charge like this morning seemed 
to put the big crazy roan right in his element. 

"How do you like this landscape compared 
with San Juan Hill?" Hallam inquired of Du- 
pont, who had served with Roosevelt's Rough- 
Riders. 

"Well, sir," he replied, "I ain't particularly 
partial to such landscapes, but the Spick pop- 
guns in Cuba was considerably less hell than these 
crumps of Fritz's." 

194 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

As they moved along up the valley the hard 
road gave way to an irresolute trail of mud and 
shell-holes. Their gallop was toned down to a 
walk, and the hostile batteries continued seek- 
ing for them. Driver Dewsbery was here taken 
with violent fits of fear, and began jerking his 
horses* heads, like one afflicted with St. Vitus's 
dance. 

"Easy there, Dewsbery," admonished Hal- 
lam, in a calm voice, and a glance from his quiet 
eye steadied the nervous driver. 

Along this valley a battle had recently been 
fought and the ground was strewn with the 
wreckage. Down in a trench to their left Hal- 
lam saw a dead German. His face was as gray 
as his tunic, his great boots were buried in mud, 
his eyes wide and staring. Just over the trench, 
fallen face forward, were a sergeant and three 
Tommies. They lay as they had fallen, still 
wearing the complete kit which they had adjusted 
for the last time for the attack the other morning. 
The sergeant was a powerful fellow. Under him 
lay his rifle, with the bayonet fixed. Hallam 
could imagine how one of his broad shoulders 
would have delighted in what he called "Goin' 
for 'em wid the cold steel." But he and his 
bayonet had been halted forever in mid-career. 

Hundreds of times Cyril Hallam had passed 

195 



THE REAL FRONT 

dead forms without seeing them. This morning 
he seemed to have a strange interest in the pros- 
trate bodies strewn about. On other occasions 
he might have passed without seeing one, but 
now none escaped him. Perhaps it was a fellow- 
feehng. He was on the harvest -fields of Death; 
upon the heights of Beaumont Hummel the 
reapers were busy, and at any moment they 
might also gather him in with those who had 
already fallen. 

To the left and far to the rear he could see 
another group. Bombardier MacDonald and the 
second subsection were also in the valley. The 
horses were now wet and panting, and the deep 
mud made the hauling extremely hard. Two 
halts had to be ordered to allow the teams to gain 
their wind. Nearer and nearer, the longed-for 
crest of the protecting hill began to loom up 
before them, like a covert from the tempest, until 
at last, with horses and drivers alike soaked with 
that dire sweat that comes from fear of death, 
they dragged themselves under the crest and 
were safe from observation by the enemy. Up 
over a ramshackle bridge where a horse fell off 
into the mud, five minutes' tugging to get him out, 
and with a last rush they arrived at the guns. 

The battery had been in action during the 
night and all were asleep, but the sentry gave 

19S 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

the alarm and the crews came tumbling out of 
the gun-pits where they slept. The limbers were 
wheeled into position, and drivers and gunners 
jumped to the task of unloading. 

"Do the job as quickly as you can," said Hal- 
lam to the sergeant in charge. "We don't want 
to lose a second in getting out of here." 

Just over the crest beyond a cloud of shrapnel 
was bursting, and now and again a solitary burst 
came dangerously near, but none heeded it. 
When the last of the eight limbers had arrived 
safely Hallam proceeded to the dugout where the 
major slept, and reported that his job had been 
completed safely. 

"Well, your luck is always good, Hallam," 
laughed the major. "They haven't made a 
shell yet to find you." 

"That may be, sir," he said, grimly, "but you 
don't get me coming through Death Valley by 
daylight again with ammunition unless I bring 
it in by aeroplane." 

As each subsection completed its unloading it 
set off immediately on the return. When he 
came out of the major's dugout the last two 
limbers under Sergeant Dugmore were just trot- 
ting over the bridge, and the sound of bursting 
shells down the valley told him that the Germans 
were again searching for them. 

197 



THE REAL FRONT 

White Stockings was all atremble, pawing the 
air and neighing, when Hallam approached. 
He was very high-strung, and the inactivity amid 
the din was too much for him. It required a 
supreme effort to mount, and instantaneously, 
as the rider's knees gripped his withers, the horse 
was away like the wind. 

Dashing around onto the trail, Hallam caught 
sight of his men at long intervals, struggling back 
down the valley, while here and there the shells 
were bursting. As if to welcome him into the 
lists, a 4.1 high-explosive shell buried itself near 
by, showering White Stockings and himseK with 
flying dirt. For a moment the horse quivered, 
irresolute, the proximity of the shot serving to 
check him; then away again with his great, lop- 
ing strides of the hunting-field, while Hallam 
pinched himself, and examined the horse's flanks 
to make sure that no piece of the shell had 
gone home. 

At a furious gallop he tore down the valley, 
passing one limber after another until the fore- 
most had been reached. Looking back along the 
line, he saw for an instant the doughty Dupont 
guiding with omnipotent hand his flery steeds; 
then a great burst of earth and smoke came up 
from beneath and swallowed them in a cloud of 
flying debris. TVTien the cloud of the explosion 

198 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

cleared, the gallant roans and the second team 
were gone; only four horses remained; the wheel 
driver was also down. 

Cyril Hallam felt a pain shoot through him 
as he beheld this sight. He could stand suf- 
fering in his own body far better than to watch 
calamity among his men or horses. He gal- 
loped back while the lead horses of the nearest 
limber were detached, according to custom, and 
brought up to replace the casualties of their dis- 
abled partner. The enemy had at last scored a 
direct hit; the drivers and horses of the lead and 
second team had been blown to pieces. The 
wheel driver was also dead, with a piece of metal 
through his head. All were beyond aid. New 
harness parts were whipped from the dashboard 
to replace broken traces and breast collars, the 
new leaders were hooked in, drivers mounted, and 
the column was under way once more. 

Driver Dupont was for two years champion 
horseman of the brigade. In and out of many 
battles he had passed unscathed, until he had 
become in the eyes of all a pillar of the battery, 
seeming as fixed as the hills. But now his mates 
had to leave him and his imperial roans prostrate 
forever on that bloody trail. 

The column was only under way when another 

casualty was suffered in the same subsection, 

199 



THE REAL FRONT 

The lead driver and his riding-horse went down 
together; the horse was killed and the man 
slightly wounded in his left arm. 

The dead horse was known as Nige, Driver 
Holmes's especial pet. He had been driven in a 
team with another black horse, known as Nigger, 
and now, as they cut out old Nige, Nigger rubbed 
his nose against his driver, his ears forward, 
his eyes wide, his every attitude asking patheti- 
cally, "WTiathave they done with my old mate, 
Nige?" Sorrow was written in every attitude of 
the poor horse. 

Hallam pitied his men under shell-fire, but the 
horses stirred in him an even deeper sympathy. 
It was heartbreaking for him to see the trem- 
bling fear of the poor dumb animals, to feel their 
unreasoning alarms, to hear their terrifying 
breath when they were hit, and to look upon 
their mild, reproachful eyes as they died. To 
see these horses that he had loved and cared for 
for months tortured and dying was almost more 
than Hallam could stand. 

Nigger, it was discovered, also had a slight 
wound in the breast. He was, therefore, de- 
tached, and the wounded horse proceeded to the 
rear, while the limber went on with four horses, 
which was an easy draft, as the ammunition had 
been discharged. Two minutes later, Bombardier 



THROUGH DEATH VALLEY BY DAYLIGHT 

MacDonald and three of his drivers, with four 
horses, all went down together under a shower of 
shrapnel. The three men were all wounded. 
Bombardier was hit severely. The wounded were 
placed on the dashboards of two limbers; one, 
who was too weak to hold on, was made fast 
by telephone-wire, and they were off again. 

"This is pretty thick just now, sir," said 
Sergeant Dugmore. He had been everywhere 
where there was a casualty, and had always been 
master of the situation. Suddenly — whir! — and 
a "whiz-bang" (a high-velocity shell) just 
grazed his back in its flight; he could actu- 
ally feel its breath. Turning in his saddle, the 
stolid old British sergeant exclaimed, in fine con- 
tempt, "Aw, stop yer blinkin' shovin', will yer?" 
Just then another burst of shrapnel went home 
and two drivers and four more horses were down. 
Both of the drivers were wounded, and as they 
were lifted onto the dashboards it seemed that 
the limbers were fast becoming ambulances. 

Through all this tragedy and horror Cyril Hal- 
lam still found himself calm and undaunted. 
When things looked blackest his stout heart re- 
mained the same, and more than once he was 
amazed at his own unshaken poise. 

Only a short distance remained between him 
and the screen. Two subsections had already 

^01 



THE REAL FRONT 

passed around into comparative safety; then in 
a rapture of joy he saw the other subsections 
disappear, one by one. Sergeant Dugmore van- 
ishing after the last limber. 

Like a true officer, Hallam was ridiag a hun- 
dred yards behind, so as to be sure that all his 
men got iuto safety first. As the last of his 
limbers went out of sight, he knew that he had 
successfully run the gantlet through Death Val- 
ley by dayHght. He had met his crisis in France, 
and he had conquered. He was no coward. He 
turned iu his saddle to take a parting glance at 
Beaimiont Hummel, when a whirring noise filled 
his ears; then everA'thing went black about him 
from^a great explosion, and darkness followed. 



XII 

THE RED CROSS NURSE 

rriHROUGH the gloom-haunted streets of a 
-*• shattered town on the fringes of the zone of 
fire there passes a Red Cross nurse. Despite the 
stiffness of her regulation cap, there burst from 
beneath rebellious waves of auburn hair under 
which her blue eyes sparkle, while her face is 
dimpled with a smile at once arresting and 
bewitching. 

Private Murphy, of the Inniskillen Fusileers, 
regards her approach with rhapsody, and as she 
passes collapses into the arms of his mate Gil- 
hooley, exclaiming, "May the howly Virgin 
bless us, but the angels have come to the 
Somme!" 

Down the long dark street of the ruined town 
the girl of the Red Cross passes like a benedic- 
tion. The very shattered pavements seem to feel 
old memories at the patter of her pretty feet. 
Many seasons of tribulation have come and gone 
since this old town has throbbed to maiden foot- 

203 



THE REAL FROM 

steps. But in the somber present the light of 
other days rekindles as the fair nurse passes. 

Xo wonder that Private Murphy loses himself 
ID rhapsodies. The whole long street goes with 
him. The armorer corporal at the door of his 
billet, looking up from his work with sour and 
knitted brow, suddenly has his face reflecting 
brightness. He has seen her and that is enough. 
The pompous regimental sergeant-major, the 
cares of an empire shadowed forth on his features, 
without warning seems to drop into his second 
childhood as he halts a ciurse m mid-career and 
whispers, "The dear little thing I" 

A battalion, marching off for the front, are 
favored by an especial smile, and with lighter 
hearts they slc^ along over the pare to their fate. 

Driver Derbyshire, of the Army Service Corps, 
intercepting the smile intended for the fighting- 
men, arrogates the same to himself, and is 
spirited through high air by its very memory, 
until he runs amuck of Private Murphy, who 
exclaims, "Aw, ye smirkin' strawberry - jam 
pincher, faith, an' ye've got a dose o' shell-shock 
from lookin' at the loidy.'' 

AH the way down that darkened street the 
little nurse takes with her a reciprocity of smiles. 
At the far end of the town, griim, glowering 
General Bangs, just entering his car, catches a 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

glimpse of the Sister, and like sunshine through 
April showers his face beams forth as he ex- 
claims, with the wealth of gladness: "Good 
evening, Sister. It's delightful just to catch a 
glimpse of you in passing." 

All through the night the sentry on his beat 
before headquarters chuckles to himself, for he 
has seen that transcendental General Bangs go 
down before the nurse's smile, and so a touch of 
nature makes the whole world kin. 

Early in the war I heard an old man in his arm- 
chair in a London club hold forth on how women 
should not be allowed to go to the front. "It's 
all nonsense," he exclaimed, "so unnecessarily 
exposing our women to danger. I tell you, male 
orderlies and male nurses are just as good for the 
job." So much for an arm-chair pronouncement. 
But the universal testimony of the wounded man 
is that the soft and tender ministrations of the 
women are the most healing, soothing influences 
to be found in a military hospital. 

Ever since the days of Florence Nightingale 
the Red Cross nurse has been quietly but steadily 
winning her way into the theater of war. At the 
beginning there were many old Tories who said, 
"Pooh-pooh!" when women began to encroach 
upon the battle-field. 

JjQvd Kitchener was one of those who at first 

?05 



THE REAL FRONT 

believed in male nurses. But later experience 
completely changed his views, and he became an 
out-and-out believer in Sisters being attached 
even to clearing-stations well up toward the 
firing-line. 

The present war has established the position 
of the nursing Sister as an indispensable adjunct 
of the army in the field. I saw in France the 
grave of a nurse who had died in active service. 
Hers was as truly a soldier's grave as that of any 
fallen infantryman or gunner. Faithful unto 
death in her post of duty, she left behind the same 
example of courage and of self-devotion that 
characterized her brothers of the combatant 
forces. The life of a Red Cross nurse is one of 
extreme hardship and privation, and often of 
great danger. The lot of nurses in our peaceful 
cities, as we are all aware, is no bed of roses. 
But the life of the army nurse is even more exact- 
ing. There is no regularity for them as in civil 
life, and in times of great battles they often work 
night and day, without sleep or rest, until they 
drop from sheer exhaustion. 

During one of our big battles on the Somme 
last fall over ten thousand cases passed through 
one clearing-station alone in less than a week. 
The awful strain upon the handful of Sisters in 
the clearing-station in a time like this seems be- 

i06 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

yond endurance. Yet with infinite patience and 
a tireless mercy they toil on hour after hour with 
the unceasing stream of wounded, treating all 
with the same invincible sweetness. 

One of the standing miracles to me is the way 
they preserve their cheery smile, which often to 
the wan-faced Tommy is more salutary than any 
other restorative. One would expect to find 
them callous and hardened after months of this 
kind of life, but such is not the case. Those who 
are now old campaigners, who have been out 
since 1914, seem to possess as spontaneous a 
sympathy as those who have only just arrived. 

When the wounded first come in from the 
front they are often in a deplorable condition. 
Unkempt and unshaven, their clothes filthy with 
vermin, lice, and blood, their very appearance 
seems loathsome, and yet these gentle Sisters 
bathe them and clothe them anew, setting them- 
selves to the task with the same cheery spirit 
with which they would engage in the most 
pleasant occupation. 

The savant, like my old friend of the city club, 
would declare that women could not do such 
things. "Why," he would maintain, "the emer- 
gencies of war would render her absolutely use- 
less!" From my observation of the Red Cross 
nurse, my faith in the capability of woman has 

207 



THE REAL FRONT 

infinitely increased. I no longer have ears for 
this idle prattle on the limited sphere of women, 
about their not being able to do this and not 
having the power to stand that. I have seen a 
little chit of a girl with a Red Cross brassard on 
her arm standing up to the emergencies of war as 
well as any man, and, to quote from the ver- 
nacular, "I've got to hand it to them." 

Once in my artillery observation post in the 
Ypres salient I tacked up a picture of a group of 
American high-school girls w^ho w^ere acting as 
Red Cross nurses in Texas. Any one of these 
girls would have been awarded a prize at a 
beauty show. As the observation post was 
visited by numerous officers, it is needless to re- 
late that the picture aroused much ecstasy of 
speech. 

"Oh, I say!" . . . "My word, what dreams!" 
. . . "Oh, to be a wounded hero in Texas!" were 
among the spontaneous outbursts. Perhaps a 
chap who had been back to England w^ounded, 
"Been to Blighty," as we say in the trenches, 
would hold forth about the charms of the young 
V. A. D. nurses. 

"All the V. A. D.'s are just like that, boys," 
declared one who had been in the great hospital 
at Brighton Pavilion. "I used to have one 
come around to take my temperature in the 

208 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

morning, and then I lived in hope until she came 
around again at night. Take a tip from me, 
that if you get a Blighty, go to the Brighton 
Pavilion, for they're all beauties there — just like 
these Texas girls." This was an individual's 
opinion. 

But in a deeper sense one sees real beauty in 
every nurse of the Red Cross. The first impres- 
sion may not be striking, but for the wounded 
soldier the passage of time always serves to un- 
fold new charm and sweetness in his nurse's face. 

"I never had a nurse yet that I didn't think 
was lovely after the second day," declared a 
brother officer of mine. Theirs is that deepest, 
rarest form of beauty that comes alone through 
love and service. It is the same loveliness that 
one beholds in his mother's smile, retaining its 
eternal freshness while firefly charmers wax and 
wane. 

These Sisters of Mercy in our hospitals are the 
farthest antitheses to war in the trenches. 
While we of the guns are striving to smash down 
and to destroy, they of the Red Cross are strug- 
gling to build up and to restore. Wliile our 
business is to kill, theirs is to save. In the 
trenches one catches horrific flashes of the depths 
of human hate; in the hospitals one sees the 

heights of human sacrifice and love. 
14 209 



THE REAL FRONT 

In the awful hell of the front line our faith in 
humanity may be shaken. But that faith re- 
turns when we go into the hospitals and see the 
soft hand of the Sister, soothing the fevered brow 
of friend and foe alike. 

Heartsick from the sordid scenes of this most 
brutal war, I love to remember the German sur- 
geon who carefully dressed one of our wounded 
men in Xo Man's Land, and gently carried him 
back into our lines, to the care of his own com- 
rades. A British surgeon who afterward re- 
dressed the wound told me that the enemy sur- 
geon had performed a masterly task in his first 
dressing. The nobility of war in other days was 
in such deeds as this. Among an enemy that 
has crucified om- Red Cross stretcher-bearers 
with bayonets, that has fired on the ambulance 
flag, and that has sunk our hospital ships on the 
seas — among such abysmal foes one is glad even 
for a single ray of kindness like that of the good 
German doctor. 

In oiu- hospitals I am glad to say that such old 
chivalry still reigns. ^Mien I see one of our own 
sweet nurses tenderly soothing the pain of a 
wounded Hun I say to myself, "There is still 
room for faith." Here at least the precepts of 
Him who taught us mercy are not altogether 
dead. 

210 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

There are pacifists in whom I believe with all 
my heart. They are the pacifists of the Red 
Cross brassard, the angels of mercy behind the 
battle-field. Far be it from me to lighten the 
stern face of war. My business as a soldier is 
killing Germans. War for us is war to the 
death. But I am glad that the flag of the 
Geneva Convention, so stained by our enemies, 
still flies behind our lines unsullied, with mercy 
alike for friend and foe. 

I remember in a clearing-station at Aire-sur- 
le-Lys there was a German soldier dying from his 
wounds. Morning, noon, and night the nurse 
on his case was watching over him, attending to 
his every whim, and soothing his every fear as 
he slipped toward the Dark Valley. Before he 
died the faithful nurse transcribed for him a 
letter to his wife. 

It was my duty to censor this sad epistle. I 
hold it in mind as a tragic memoir of the war. 
In quaintest German it ran: 

My dear Wife, — I am sore wounded. I shall never- 
more return to you and to my dear children and to my kin- 
dred in our Fatherland. Good-by forever. 

Heinrich. 

The beauty of a life of service is most serene 
when we behold such ministrations as those of 
this nurse to a stricken foe. 

211 



THE REAL FRONT 

Many romances are woven in the hospitals, 
and a war wedding is often a happy sequel to the 
story. A rough, big-hearted Australian, who 
was in the next bed to me in a base hospital, 
confided in me the evolution of his heart since 
coming under the ministrations of the nursing 
Sisters. 

"You see, mate, I'm what they call a bush- 
ranger out in Australia. I'm one of the hard 
ones, and I always passed as a woman-hater. 
I used to look with contempt on my pals who 
lost their heart upon a little bit of fluff. I've 
played on the red all my life, and my conception 
of woman was beastly low. But this hospital 
business has opened my eyes to something new 
in woman, something I never dreamed of. I 
can feel it comin', mate — some day I'm goin' 
to fall for one o' these little girls as bad as the 
worst. That fair-haired cove of the Flying 
Corps across the ward there just worships the 
night Sister's shadow, but I must confess he's 
got nothin' on me." 

The "fair-haired cove of the Flying Corps" 
did have something on the Australian, however, 
for he was the Young Lochinvar who walked off 
with the bride. A few months later I recognized 
his picture in the Illustrated London Neivs over 
the caption, "War Wedding," The picture wag 

m 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

taken just outside an old ivy-covered parish 
church. A guard of honor of his brother oflScers 
had formed the arch of slender swords, and 
under the gleaming arch, amid showers of 
confetti, came the smiling aviator with our 
sweet nurse of the night watches leaning on his 
arm. 

Like a fabulous memory from the mirage of 
fairyland there lingers with me still the face of 
Sister O'Calligan, an Irish girl who nursed me 
through delirious nights of fever. 

It is a clearing-station on lines of communica- 
tion. I am down with malaria and my tem- 
perature is soaring. Outside the chimes of St. 
Omer strike out the long, long hours. Sleep 
will not come, and the night it seems will never 
pass. I am tossed by the fever upon delirious 
seas, when like a benediction a shadow falls 
across my fevered cot. It is the Lady of the 
Lamp; she pauses and a cool hand soothes down 
my fevered brow, and a soft voice gently croons 
a song, "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Gaz- 
ing dimly, I behold the violet depths of Sister 
O'Calligan's eyes, and faintly I answer back her 
smile. 

I know not whether any of the learned phy- 
sicians have written on "The Therapeutic Value 
of a Nurse's Smile," but through those darkened, 

213 



THE REAL FRONT 

tortuous ways of fever I know that the glad 
light on Sister O'Calligan's face was, beyond all 
else, restoring me. 

Sister O'Calligan, moving up and down that 
darkened ward, casting her shadow from a night- 
lamp in her hand, always recalled to me the title, 
"The Lady of the Lamp," by which fond phrase 
the wounded of the Crimea always referred to 
Florence Nightingale as she passed among them 
at night. 

Always before the lights were dimmed and 
we went to sleep in the ward Sister O'Calligan 
would sing to us with a rich Irish voice. I can 
recall a young cavalry subaltern who would 
always implore at the end, *'0h. Sister, just one 
more!" 

Sister O'Calligan added to the charms of her 
lovely face and her violet eyes the beauty of a life 
of service. It was this that made us worship 
her very shadow as she passed along the ward. 

"I'll always remember you. Sister!" exclaimed 
the impassioned young cavalry subaltern as he 
left the hospital, and he spoke for every one 
of us. Just as the Crimean veterans worship 
the memory of their "Lady of the Lamp," of 
Scutari on the Bosphorus, so I shall always adore 
the picture of my "Lady of the Lamp of St. 
Omer." 

214 



THE RED CROSS NURSE 

Wherever the Red Cross nurse appears in the 
abysmal scenes of war, there are the roses of 
romance. As out of mire and filth the lilies 
bloom, so out of hate and strife their deeds of 
service ever blossom forth with sweetness and 
with fragrance. 



xra 

THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

T TNDER the barrack gate and across the 
^^ square of the training-depot sweep a horde 
of new recruits; they have just arrived, and they 
represent a mob of disorder and chaos. 

A sergeant-major of the regulars, a lion-tamer 
whose duty it will be to hammer discipline into 
the mob, regards its uncontrolled vagaries with 
contemptuous eye. 

The sergeant-major stands well back in the 
shadow of the gateway beside the sentry-box. 
None of these unconscious young men surging 
by give him a thought, but the vigilant eye of the 
lion-taming sergeant loses nothing. 

The youth with the impudent look is slated 
for a lesson in authority, many with stooping 
shoulders and ambling gait are already allotted 
to extra hours of "setting-up," a moon-faced 
individual v/hose every move spells stolid is un- 
consciously assigned to the "awkward squad." 
A raucous-voiced, hard-looking gang from the 

216 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

city slums are the last to pass through the gate, 
and they straightway begin to desecrate the 
barrack square with their obscene and strident 
language. Immediately, in imagination, the 
sergeant had this gang doing pack drill at the 
"steady double." 

"I'll take it out of 'em," exclaimed the drill 
sergeant to himself, slapping his leg sharply with 
his swagger-stick, as if to emphasize the way in 
which he meant to lay it on. 

But the sergeant knew well that a grim task 
lay before him. The magnitude of that task 
was even more fully appreciated by the colonel 
and adjutant in the orderly-room, through which 
the horde now swept. In the quartermaster's 
lines the issuing of uniforms commences, and a 
short time later the mob begins to appear in 
khaki. 

This putting on of the uniform for the first 
time may seem a slight performance, but it has 
a vast significance. It means that the young 
man has crossed his Rubicon. It is emblematic 
of renunciation of the world and the acceptance 
of the stern vows of the soldier. 

The United States is witnessing that won- 
drous miracle, the transformation of civilians 
into soldiers. Over a million Americans have 
recently donned the khaki for the first time. 

?17 



THE REAL FRONT 

Wlien they made their initial appearance in 
regimentals, by that appearance they gave proof 
that they were in the service of their country. 
But the wearing of the uniform did not mean 
that they were soldiers. 

Many mothers of this country are now able to 
say, "My boy's in khaki," but there are iron 
struggles yet ahead for those same boys ere their 
proud parents may declare, "My son's a soldier." 
Vast indeed is the gulf which separates the masses 
of prosperous, self-willed young America from the 
austere and authoritative world of the soldier. 

Far away from the cabaret show and the 
limousine is the simple life of the training-camp. 
The boy who enters there must bid good-by to 
"Easy Street." In putting on the uniform he 
has crossed over from "Easy Street" to the 
opposite side, to the side of the street that breeds 
strong men. On the opposite side of the street 
from "Easy Street" he will begin to learn again 
forgotten secrets of his forebears, the pioneers, 
and, like them, out of struggle he will come forth 
a soldier. 

A good soldier is not made in a day. He does 
not spring, like Pallas Athene, full-panoplied 
from the brow of Jove. He is the fruit of a long, 
hard struggle and of tireless training. 

At the beginning of the American Ci\'il War 

218 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

how proudly the first troops inarched away! 
They all esteemed themselves true soldiers at the 
start, but the rabble at Bull Run were sorely 
disenchanted. How different were the war- 
worn, seasoned veterans that marched down 
Pennsylvania Avenue in the grand review! 
Those veterans were the acme of soldiers, not 
only for America, but for the world. They had 
become soldiers in the only way, through sacri- 
fice and struggle. 

Let the young American be proud indeed as he 
dons the United States uniform for the first time. 
There is no greater honor for a man than the 
wearing of his country's uniform in time of war. 
Whether he is a general or a private, that honor 
is the same. As it is in the Articles of Faith 
of the Japanese soldier, "All soldiers must re- 
member that they are associated in a great and 
honorable service, and that to serve worthily, 
in the station in which each is placed, is an honor 
in which the private participates as fully as the 
general." 

The young man who has just entered the army 
has entered upon a career of limitless possibil- 
ities. In the army, just as in civil life, there is 
always an ideal, and no matter to what excel- 
lence one may attain, there is still something 
better ahead. Colonel Henderson, in his Life of 

219 



THE REAL FRONT 

Stonewall Jackson, remarks, "If Napoleon him- 
self, more highly endowed with every military 
attribute than any other general of the Christian 
era, thought it necessary to teach himself this 
business by incessant study, how much more is 
such study necessary for ordinary men." 

A soldier is not a parrot or an automaton. 
Many a recruit has clipped the wings of his 
career by accepting this fallacy. xAn artillery 
officer in America with the French ^Mission said 
that he had been away from France for three 
weeks, and that he had so lost touch with the 
situation that he was out of date. Let that be a 
warning to those who think that military lessons 
are easy. "Still learning," was the motto of 
Lord Roberts's life, and it may well be taken 
by every young recruit. 

The famous fighting family of Grenfells, who 
have lost four sons in the war, have always ap- 
pealed to me as ideal soldiers. Rivy and 
Francis were twin brothers in the Ninth Lancers. 
They were two of the finest polo-players in the 
world, men of perfect physique and of hardest 
physical training. They were possessed of keen 
minds, and no post-graduate student at Harvard, 
working for his doctor's degree in philosophy, 
was more assiduous than these two officers in 

their study of mihtary science. Above all, they 

2i0 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

were men of splendid spirit. For years, in 
season and out, they were striving to be good 
soldiers, to be ready when their country needed 
them. 

It was because of men like the Grenfells that 
the Old Contemptibles were able to stand against 
overwhelming odds. Capt. Rivy Grenfell and 
Capt. Francis Grenfell, V.C., are both dead, but 
their example remains a priceless ideal for the 
young soldiers that come after. 

The sergeant-major, the colonel, the adjutant, 
and all those in authority at the training-depot, 
have a high ideal for the young recruit. But he 
himself must awaken and cherish that same ideal 
for himself and toil and strive unceasingly toward 
its attainment. 

If the young recruit has the right stuff in him, 
the days and months in the training-depot will 
work wonders with him. Within a short period 
of time the moon-faced youth who ambled un- 
der the barrack gate will be passing out a new 
and finer man. Clean and smart in appearance, 
keen and alert in mind, strong and agile in body, 
he passes with all the promise of some day being 
truly worthy of the high name of his profession. 

Only one type of man is impossible in the army, 
and that is the mah who can't obey; such a one 
invariably passes through defaulters' parades, a^n^ 



THE REAL FRONT 

cells, out tlirough the back door. Let the young 
recruit recognize at the start that the army is 
based on authority, and that discipline is the bed- 
rock of soldiering. 

Lq the army one must not be thinking about 
his rights; he must be concerned about his duty. 
We have had too much prating about "rights'* 
in this country, by all kinds of indiscriminate 
foreigners, who at the same time have no sense 
of obligation to the country. I heard a man 
from southeastern Europe, in a Xew York hotel 
at the time of registration, protesting loudly 
against the Government requiring him to register. 
"It is an infringement of my rights," he declared. 

"!Might I remind you," I answered, "that 
while your country's rights are at stake your 
rights are in abeyance.^" The country's rights 
must be assured or there can be no such thing as 
rights for the indi\'idual. 

"The secret of an army's moral force is that," 
in Cromwell's words, "all ranks shall know what 
they are fighting for and love what they know." 
Let every American soldier, then, be imbued with 
a fidl knowledge of the cause for which he is 
fighting; let him reaHze in his deepest soul that 
it is the rights and Hberties of his country for 
which he is at war. 

Lq the army self-abnegation rules, the indi\'id- 

222 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

ual is lost in a greater whole, the sole object of 
concern is the welfare and glory of the regiment. 
One may not be called upon to sacrifice his life 
for his country, but every day in the service he 
will be called upon to sacrifice himself. If he 
understands the spirit of the game he will do 
this gladly. 

Discipline is a stumbling-block to many a 
young recruit. Instinctively he finds himself 
inveighing against it. 

I heard it at Plattsburg recently, and I have 
heard it at all of our training-camps: "They 
are making me into a machine," he protests. 
"Why must I do this foolish drill so often.?" 
"Why can't I go outside the lines when I have 
nothing else to do.^^" "Why must I waste hours 
standing at attention, like a statue?" "Why 
must I take orders from an empty-headed cor- 
poral?" "Why can't I use my brains?" These 
are a few of the questions that leap to the tongue 
of the young recruit. 

Discipline means the loss of self for the sake 
of a greater self, so that thousands of men 
may be brought together and directed as one 
man for the accomplishment of a single purpose. 
It is manifested by immediate, unquestioning, 
and instinctive obedience to every order from a 
higher command. The sentry who stood im- 

223 



THE REAL FRONT 

movable at the post of duty in Pompeii has be- 
come an example of devotion to duty throughout 
the ages. But he has nothing on many a sentry 
in France to-day. When the deep rumblings 
under the earth give warning that a mine may 
explode any minute under the trench the order 
is given to retire. All run for their lives through 
the communicating trenches. But the sentries 
allotted to the post stand firm, with their faces 
to the foe. Though the earth be removed, their 
duty remains. 

I remember passing in a motor-car at full 
speed a place known as Suicide Corner, just out- 
side of Ypres, during the first gas attack. The 
whole civil population was in a panic, fleeing from 
the city. Across Suicide Corner the shells were 
raining. A more unhealthy place could not be 
imagined in all that terrible landscape. Yet 
there, at that awful corner, immovable and im- 
perturbable, stood a sentry from the Sixteenth 
Battalion, the Canadian-Scottish. Earth and 
sky could crash about him, but his soldier calm 
remained. That brave and fleeting picture was 
a supreme example of discipline. 

I was converted to discipline for all time in 
observing the wonders which it wrought in my 
own division, the First Canadians. Under my 
own eyes, through discipline, I saw this division 

224 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

transformed from an incorrigible mob into one 
of the most splendid fighting forces of the war. 

The British regulars didn't think much of us 
when we first arrived in England. In those 
days we wore khaki, but most of us were not 
soldiers; we were merely a mob of civilians in 
uniform. 

The common stricture uttered against us 
everywhere was, "The Canadians are all right, 
but they lack discipline.'* Certainly we did. 
One could not gather a heterogeneous mass of 
lawyers, farmers, prospectors, clerks, ranchmen, 
doctors, artisans, and business men, and throw 
them together, and get a disciplined unit out of 
this hodge-podge overnight. 

All the respectable and classic ojBScers of old 
England took a knock at us in those days. Our 
lack of discipline was a scandal in their eyes. 
But they were game sports, and they gave us 
credit for what we possessed and hoped for better 
things. 

One fair-minded English officer said, "The 
Canadians may lack discipline, but, by Gad! 
they've got gyp, and in time they will have 
discipline, too." His prophecy came true. A 
few months later in France the shattered rem- 
nant of the First Canadians were retiring from 
one of the greatest battles of the war. A de- 

15 225 



THE REAL FRONT 

tachment of EngKsh regulars who were rushing 
forward to replace them cheered the Canadians 
as they passed; some of them even amid the 
burstiQg shells waved their caps and yelled, 
"Bravo, Canadians!" This was the first inti- 
mation that this shattered remnant had that 
they had "saved the day." 

They saved the day at Ypres, and they were 
cheered by those old regulars rushing on toward 
death, because at last they had become true 
soldiers; every man had added discipline to that 
which the English call "gyp." Therefore the 
Canadian line remained unbroken. 

To-day the First Canadian Di\4sion is known 
as one of the finest fighting di^'isions on the 
western front. They have won that proud title 
because they are one of the best disciplined 
di\'isions in the army. 

The making of a soldier begins'on the parade- 
square, but the last and hardest experiences come 
on the firing-line. The lessons learned in train- 
ing, the drill of the parade-square, the theories 
of maneuvers, and all the requirements of peace 
soldiering, grow pale before those sterner lessons 
of the real front. 

War plimges one into a vortex of iatensest ac- 
tion. There is many a second Heutenant in 
France to-day, a callow youth lq appearance. 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

but a wise, resourceful iron soldier underneath. 
A few months of real campaigning have accom- 
plished for mere youngsters what in peace would 
have required long years. 

If ever there was a war in history that de- 
manded the stuff that makes a soldier it is the 
present campaign. A man without an iron con- 
stitution would soon cave in from the sleepless 
vigils in the trenches. The fighting in Flanders 
requires a man to carry on until his last ounce of 
energy is exhausted, and after that still to carry 
on. 

General Kleber, when his men, overcome by 
fatigue, refused to move a step farther, called 
them cowards. As they protested that they were 
at any rate always brave in a fight he replied: 
"Yes, you are brave men, but you are not 
soldiers. To be a soldier is not to eat when you 
are hungry, not to drink when you are thirsty, 
and to carry your comrade when you cannot 
drag yourself along." Such are the soldiers re- 
quired in Flanders to-day. 

"I don't see how you stand up against the 
strain of the trenches!" exclaims every one at 
home. If the soldiers were made of the same stuff 
as the sybaritic ones at home, they would not 
stand up against it for one day. 

But no matter how soft the raw material may 

227 



THE REAL FRONT 

be, when it enters the army, it is hammered and 
pounded and wrought until at last the human 
material is of the hardest steel. According to a 
common saying, "If a man can stand the first 
month in the army, he can stand the whole show." 

If treated rationally, the human machine is a 
standing miracle of endurance. We read of the 
hardship of Arctic explorers, when it seems in- 
credible that men born in oiu* own weak flesh 
could bear such ardors. The story of Captain 
Scott's gallant battlings toward the South Pole 
reads like a tale of superman. In point of en- 
durance our soldiers in the trenches are no less 
supermen. But with time and right training all 
things are possible. What applies in regard to 
physical hardship is true in a greater degree in 
regard to nervous and mental strain. 

Any man coming under shell-fire for the first 
time is in a blue funk, unless he enjoys a blissful 
obtuseness. 

"Colonel," said a major in the hot fire for the 
first time, "you are afraid. I see you tremble." 

"Yes," replied the colonel, "and if you were as 
afraid as I am, you would run away." 

Despite this natural fear, it is possible for 
soldiers to become acclimated to danger and 
shell-fire, just as it is possible for Arctic ex- 
plorers to become acclimated to extreme cold. 

228 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

If one of our soft young men from a city office 
were forced out onto a grueling march of several 
days, with open bivouac in perishing winter 
weather, he would soon give in from exhaustion 
and exposure. If he were suddenly dropped 
from his quiet room into the hell of the front 
line, his heart would stop beating from sheer 
shock. 

Sometimes when new drafts arrive in the line 
they encounter a particularly bad time on their 
first day. Perhaps one is blown up by a shell 
and is found dead without a mark on his body. 
The shock was too great, and his resistance 
powers were not yet keyed up to the demand. 
While an old-timer might be blown up and come 
down grinning, an unseasoned soldier would come 
down stark and cold. 

My old company commander in 1914, who is 
now serving his third year in France, is for me 
the truest embodiment of the stuff that makes a 
soldier. He was a captain when I first met him, 
though he is far beyond that rank to-day. 

It was in August, 1914, that I first met the 
captain. He was standing in front of his tent 
speaking to one of his platoon commanders. 
"Look 't here, young feller," he was saying, "I 
don't want so much talk out of you about the dif- 
ference between an officer and a man. I tell 

229 



THE REAL FRONT 

you that we are all soldiers, and if we deserve it, 
'soldier' is the highest term that can be applied 
to any of us, irrespective of rank." 

I looked at the captain as he stood there with 
his trim figure. His legs were thin, his waist 
was lean, his shoulders were square, and his 
head was carried high. The small pointed mus- 
tache and the swagger-stick under his arm gave 
the finishing touch of dash to his soldierly figure. 
\Mien off duty our company commander was 
what is technically known in the cavalry as a 
"regular blood." He was a darling of the ladies, 
and a ringleader in every wildest jamboree. 

But whatever he was in his gay moments, with 
all his dashing exuberance of spirit, he was 
austere and cold as an iceberg when he stood 
before his company on parade. At the very be- 
ginning the captain appealed to me as an ideal 
soldier. But with Lord Roberts his motto was, 
"Still learning." Some veterans of other wars 
thought that they knew it all at the start. Not 
so with the captain. "I'll tell you, boys," he 
would say, "we're going in for classic fighting 
now. And we've got to be trained to the minute. 
South Africa was a ragtime show to what we 
will be up against in the Germans." 

K this officer was my ideal in August, 1914, 
how much more was he the embodiment of the 

230 



THE STUFF THAT MAKES A SOLDIER 

stuff that makes a soldier when I last beheld 
him, heading his regiment in column of route, 
on one of the roads that lead toward the Somme. 
The swagger-stick was missing, his mustache was 
not trimmed as in old days, but his manner was 
still dashing and debonair. Shining buttons 
and accouterments still spoke of the old-time 
pride of person. In his eye there was a calm 
and serene look, as though through long nights 
of vigil in the trenches he had worshiped at 
the shrine of Buddha. The volatile and scintil- 
lating glance, the delight of the ladies on the 
Dufferin Terrace, was gone. In its place was an 
expression of calm and imperturbability. As I 
looked upon the eyes of my old friend I thought 
of all that they had seen since last we met, and 
was thrilled, for shining through those eyes I saw 
the soldierly spirit, the spirit which is the greatest 
glory of our time. 

The development of a soldierly spirit should be 
the end of all training; and it will be the highest 
outcome of all campaigning. It is the possession 
of this quality that enables ten men to beat a 
hundred, and fifty to rule a thousand. The story 
of the British conquest of India, and of Scott's 
campaign in Mexico, are examples of how moral 
force may triumph over overwhelming numbers. 
A soldierly spirit enables a man to be cheerful in 

231 



THE REAL FRONT 

privation, to put faith in his superiors, to practise 
necessary self-confidence and self-restraint, to 
act with initiative amidst unforeseen dangers, 
and to obey all orders with courage and disregard 
of self. 

It was the soldierly spirit that permeated Jack- 
son's infantry at Chancellorsville, that spirit held 
the Ypres salient in 1914 when we were one to 
ten. Lord Kavanaugh's Household Cavalry 
Brigade stood alone and unbroken against vast 
hordes of Germans on Mennin Ridge because 
every trooper of the Household Cavalry was 
possessed of a soldierly spirit. This spirit has 
characterized all Canada's New World troops 
since the beginning. 



XIV 

NEW WORLD TROOPS IN AN OLD WORLD WAR 

rilHE United States has entered the World 
-■' War with becoming modesty. The period 
of her neutrality was the period of her probation. 
During the time when she was trying to keep out 
of the war her ears were filled with the recrimina- 
tions and reproaches of those more ardent citizens 
who were for instant participation. During all 
this period the magnitude of the task was being 
fully revealed to her. At last in deadly earnest, 
and shorn of all illusions and false hopes, the 
United States has entered the struggle. 

No nation has entered the war with a deeper 
seriousness, and with a more becoming humility. 
Out of the period of her probation the United 
States has emerged with a contrite heart. 
Despite the tendency of the New World for big 
talk, no bluster or jingoism is heard in the 
country to-day. 

The tendency has been to depreciate, rather 
than to expatiate on, the influence of American 

233 



THE REAL FRONT 

intervention. And yet America's entrance into 
the struggle will stand out as the greatest event 
in the history of the war. Mr. Asquith, speaking 
in the House of Commons, said, "I doubt whether 
even now the world realizes the full significance 
of the step which America has taken." 

American intervention marks an epoch in 
world history. Here for the first time the Old 
World and the New are joined together in a com- 
mon struggle on a common battle-field. 

The "splendid isolation policy," the foreign 
policy of the United States since its birth, has 
been abandoned. She has now definitely entered 
the arena of world politics, and is destined to be- 
come a new force in the sphere of international 
relations. 

America planned to keep out of all entangling 
alliances with Europe. But now, on account of 
the solidarity of mankind in the struggle for 
freedom, America has plunged into the vortex of 
world politics, and as war is the present policy 
of world politics, she has plunged into the vortex 
of world war. 

Europe sees with awe the great New World 
across the water preparing to join her in the 
strife. Britain, the Old Gray Mother of the 
English-speaking race, beholds with tears of glad- 
ness a long-lost daughter joining hands again. 

234 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

Thanks to the good oflSces of the Kaiser, kinsfolk 
have come together. William not only obligingly 
cemented the British Commonwealth, home- 
land and Colonies, but he has added America to 
that English-speaking union, which must ever 
make for liberty and peace on earth. 

The London Times referred to the arrival of 
General Pershing's men as the "return of the 
Pilgrims." It was a happy allusion, for as the 
party of the Mayflower crossed to Plymouth Rock 
in quest of liberty, so General Pershing's men 
have recrossed the ocean in the same pursuit. 

Last year in the trenches in front of Ypres I 
met one Major Stewart, who had formerly been 
an officer in the American Regular Army. It 
was at the time of Sanctuary Wood battle, when 
the Canadians had lost heavily. We fell to dis- 
cussing the reasons why he, an American, was in 
what seemed to be another's quarrel. 

"I came," said Major Stewart, simply, "be- 
cause I had to come. You were fighting for 
liberty, for my liberty as well as yours, and I 
couldn't stand the idea of having some one 
else purchasing my liberty for me." 

At that time the bloodiest fighting was in 
progress, the Canadians having lost ground, 
which, according to their tradition, had to be 
regained. Two days later the Seventh Battalion, 

235 



THE REAL FRONT 

lying next to ^lajor Stewart's, the Tenth, were 
going over the top. They had lost all their 
senior officers, and Major Stewart volunteered to 
lead them over. Just as he was leading the 
charge over the parapet he wa5 wounded in the 
foot, and was carried back into the trench, where 
a few moments later he was killed by another 
sheU. 

The words and heroic example of that gallant 
officer of the American Regulars, who fell with us, 
remain with me a token of the best spirit of this 
New World. 

New armies are being born in America to-day 
with the same crusading spirit of my friend, 
Major Stewart. I have ^^sited Plattsburg Camp. 
I have inspected several of the training regiments, 
and I have heard the heart-beat of multitudes of 
American young men, and I say that what 
Canada has done the United States will do. If 
the war drags on, as it gives e\'idences of doing, 
this country will be able to render vaster and 
more decisive ser\*ice than smaller Canada could 
think of rendering. 

General Bell said at Madison Square Garden, 
*'The United States is proud of Canada, because 
Canada is American, and we hope some day that 
Canada will be proud of the United States, be- 
cause the United States is American." As 

256 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

Canadians we know that Canada shall yet be 
proud of the service rendered by the great nation 
that shares with her the heritage of the New 
World. 

Nothing could surpass the earnestness of this 
country as she enters upon the war. The prepa- 
ration for the Civil War was a half-hearted thing 
to the preparation which the country is making 
for this struggle. If Walt Whitman was so 
moved by the sight of the few thousands that 
rallied from New York at the beginning of the 
Civil War, what would he say now, could he see 
a million men answering the call instantly that 
war is declared.^ 

An old veteran whom I met at the Union 
League Club said to me, "The enthusiasm and 
spirit with which we have entered this war far 
exceed the spirit with which we began in 
sixty-one." 

Many questions arise as we regard the New 
World preparing for the struggle. How will the 
New World troops do on the classic battle-fields 
of Europe? These will not be guerrilla fights, 
but battles directed by profound masters of 
strategy and military science. Will our generals 
be adequate to such tests .^ How will the Amer- 
ican contribution affect the struggle in Europe, 
as to its methods, and as to its ultimate issue? 

«37 



THE REAL FRONT 

And how will the Old World itself affect America? 
These are some of the many questions that arise 
in our minds at this moment. 

In reply to questions that arise, it may be 
safely averred at the start that the necessary 
men will be forthcoming. In the last analysis, 
the war will be won by men, more men, and yet 
more men. It should always be borne in mind 
that the fighting-men on the firing-line, beyond 
aeroplanes and inventions and all else, will be 
the decisive factor. 

The United States is rightly preparing for a 
long war. According to official despatches from 
Washington, "No army officer who is acquainted 
with the real situation expects the war to end 
until the United States has sent at least one 
million men to the firing-line, and perhaps two 
millions may be needed." 

There should be no cause for undue worry as 
to the discovering of proper leadership for the 
higher commands. The crisis of the American 
Civil War brought forth some of the greatest 
masters of strategy and military science of all 
time. An officer in the English Staff College 
to-day who is a candidate for advancement is 
required to pass an examination in Colonel 
Henderson's Life of Stonewall Jackson, That 
distinguished graduate of West Point who fell at 

238 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

Chancellorsville has become a mentor in the 
military schools of Europe. 

Prof. William James, in his address on "The 
Energies of Man," says, "A new position of re- 
sponsibility will usually show a man to be a far 
stronger creature than was supposed." Crom- 
well's and Grant's careers are stock examples of 
how war will wake a man up. 

Canada abounds with such examples. Major- 
General Sir Arthur Currie, C.B., K.C.M.G., 
who now commands the Canadian Corps, was at 
the beginning of the war an unknown real-estate 
broker in British Columbia. Major-General Sir 
R. E. W. Turner, V.C, C.B., D.S.O., KC.M.G., 
was quietly conducting a wholesale grocery busi- 
ness in Quebec in the summer of 1914. To-day, 
after a brilliant career in France, he represents 
the Canadians at the War Office. As in the 
Civil War, so in this present crisis, the United 
States may see a galaxy of brilliant generals 
shine forth again on the pages of her history. 

The whole future of Europe and America will 
be changed because of their present union in this 
war. Each side will make its contribution to the 
other, and when the war is over the Old World 
will be newer, and the New World will be older, 
because we have fought together. 

America is not going "over there" to ape 



THE REAL FRONT 

Old World traditions. She will go with the 
freshness of her own new life. You cannot pour 
new wine into old bottles, and you cannot make 
New World troops into Old World soldiers. 
After a hard experience England has learned this 
lesson from her Colonial troops. At the begin- 
ning the regulation automatic drill sergeant 
wanted to make all the Colonials according to 
the prescribed pattern of Tommy Atkins. But 
the free and breezy lads from overseas, unlike the 
Billingsgate loafer, were not in the army for a 
shilling a day, and they refused to be hammered 
into automatons. 

Some even went so far as to blast the most 
time-honored traditions of the service. A big 
Australian private was walking through London 
after the Dardanelles show. He had been 
through that baptism of hell, and with his sleeves 
rolled up, as the Anzacs love to wear them, he 
sauntered along the Strand, an ideal picture of a 
rough-and-ready Colonial who cared not one 
whit for ceremony, but who could be depended 
upon for fighting. 

He encountered a pink-faced English youth, 
who had just got his commission, one of the 
Percival or Cuthbert type, whom we refer to in 
the army as "poodle-fakers." The young one, 
with a due sense of his dignity, held up the big 

240 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

Australian private for not saluting him. "Don't 
you know an hoflScer when you see 'im?" he 
exclaimed. The Anzac drew himself to his full 
height and, bending, clapped the youth with a 
mighty hand, announcing, "Sonny, you trot 
along home and tell your mother that you've 
seen a real, live soldier!" 

Unconventionality will be one of the charac- 
teristics of the New World troops. This country 
does not take kindly to forms and ceremonies. 
I remember once, while dining at the Hotel 
Folkestone in Boulogne, there entered the dining- 
room a tall, commanding figure in the uniform 
of first lieutenant. What caused every one to 
look at him was not merely his imperious figure, 
but a full-grown beard which adorned his face, 
well trimmed but prolific. 

A young English oflScer seated at my table 
nearly collapsed. According to King's Regula- 
tions and Orders it was required that every of- 
ficer and man should "shave all except the upper 
lip," which is responsible for the regulation Eng- 
lish army mustache. 

The cause of this flutter of excitement in the 

dining-hall turned out to be a Western American, 

now an officer with the Canadians, who had 

formerly served in the Philippines. Later I had 

the pleasure of meeting this bearded subaltern, 
I6 ui 



THE REAL FRONT 

and found him to be a real Westerner, who, in his 
o^vn phrase, was an old-stager, and didn't give 
a whoop in hell for any inane convention. In 
speaking of his beard he said, jocularly, *'If his 
Majesty the King can wear a beard, I see no 
reason why I, a true American, fighting in his 
forces, may not be permitted to emulate his 
Majesty to that extent." 

I found in a deeper confidence of friendship 
that the reason why this officer wore a beard 
was to hide an ugly gash across the face, which 
was the result of a wound received in the Philip- 
pines. I may add that this breezy Westerner 
has since become a major in our forces. He 
lost nothing by his unconventionality, because 
it was sincere, a mark of greatness rather 
than a weakness. I know of no subaltern who 
commanded more respect than this same eccen- 
tric Californian. 

A story is told of how one time he was on his 
way up to the trenches; his rank badges were 
hidden by his Burberry rain-proof; striding along 
in his imperious way, he passed a sentry, who gave 
him the field-officer's salute. A few moments 
later a friend, follomng there, inquired, *'Have 
you seen a platoon commander pass here re- 
cently.^" "No," said the sentry, "but a general 
with a beard went by a minute ago." The gen- 

242 



NEW WOELD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

eral with the beard was none other than our un- 
conventional CaHfornian. 

This unconventionality will distinguish Amer- 
ican troops in France. I thought of this the 
other day as I accompanied Colonel Wolf around 
Plattsburg Camp. On entering the comman- 
dant's office, I, as a British officer, was imme- 
diately struck with the lack of ostentation and 
military display. Throughout the entire camp 
I observed that the same informality prevailed. 
The basis of the camp was iron discipline, the 
same as at Aldershot, only the old-time trappings 
were gone. The boys at Plattsburg, just like the 
Anzacs, represent a soldiery with its sleeves 
rolled up. The historian of Grant's campaign 
in the Wilderness said, "There was none of the 
pomp and parade of war, only its horrible 
butchery." The same pronouncement will apply 
to the Americans in this war. 

Whsit the Colonials have already done is a 
presage of what we may yet expect from the 
Americans. The Canadians, Australians, South- 
Africans, New-Zealanders, and Americans will 
be blood-brothers in the field. All are New 
World troops, with the same restless and im- 
patient spirit. 

The First Australian Division last year took 
over a new portion of the line in France, known 

243 



THE REAL FRONT 

as Plug Street. This was their initiation into 
war on the western front, and the portion of the 
line assigned to them was therefore comparatively 
easy. Here on Plug Street many of Britain's old 
divisions got their first taste of trench warfare 
in comparatively easy stages. 

"VMien the Anzacs arrived Plug Street was 
synonymous for ''Easy Street," but not for long. 
On their first night in the line the Germans put 
it over the Anzacs and captured several Stokes 
guns. "The iron has entered our soul," said a 
great, brawny-armed Anzac captain whom I met 
at dinner behind the lines a little later. "But 
we will take it out of these blankety-blank 
Fritzes yet. They can't put it over us for 
good." How well they kept their promise was 
witnessed by the "little hell" that began at 
Plug Street. 

The Canadians thought that they had a corner 
on trouble in the bloody salient of Ypres. But 
often on quiet nights, between "stand-to" and 
"stand-down," our sentries on the rim of the fire- 
trench would hear distant rumblings. "What's 
that.'^" one would exclaim; then the other would 
wink knowingly and answer, "Them's the An- 
zacs, raisin' their own little hell down on Plug 
Street." Before long the sentries will have oc- 
casion in like manner to wink and exclaim, 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

"Them's Pershing's First Americans, raisin' their 
own little hell down yonder." 

No matter how quiet that portion of the line 
may be when Pershing's men first arrive, they 
may be depended upon to start something right 
away. The proverbial Yankee hustle is not only 
a good quality in business, it is also a decisive 
quality in war. Where we have had a compara- 
tive deadlock, and the game is becoming a 
stalemate, the impatient and restless energy of 
the West will be an acquisition. Admiral Mahan 
says: "War, once declared, must be waged of- 
fensively, aggressively. The enemy must not be 
fended off, but smitten down." Intense activity 
is a characteristic of the American. This charac- 
teristic is a desideratum in war, where there can 
be no respite and no truce. That restless, fever- 
ish, impatient spirit that characterizes a crowd on 
Wall Street, which some one has called "Newy ork- 
itis," may be hard on the nerves, but it produces 
millionaires, and the same spirit in Flanders will 
produce the discomfiture of the enemy. 

"As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever 
shall be" never was a motto for the citizens of 
the New World. Canada showed her reaction 
against the "Let-well-enough-alone" policy when 
she kicked over the traces and started trench- 
raiding. Up till that time raids were never heard 

245 



THE REAL FRONT 

of. No Man's Land was a forbidden and in- 
scrutable country. "VMien the restless Western- 
ers of the Seventh, Eighth, and Tenth Battalions 
looked across No Man's Land it called them, just 
as the unknown woods and mountains of British 
Columbia had called them. Old heads were 
shaken, and serious faces looked askance, when 
these wild Canadians first mentioned raiding. 
But, thanks to these pioneers, we have a new 
departure in trench warfare, and now raids are 
the regular order of the day. 

The Second Brigade of the First Canadian 
Division have won for themselves the title 
"Kings of No Man's Land." To them that 
dread country between the trenches is no longer 
known as No Man's Land. They call it "The 
Dominion of Canada." Canada's record for in- 
novation vdll soon be shared by the United 
States. Hindenburg may look for greater sur- 
prises than he has yet known from that section 
of the line held by American troops. 

Most of the great inventions of this war are 
the product of the American mind. The aero- 
plane, the submarine, the machine-gun, and the 
howitzer, have revolutionized modern warfare. 
All these inventions came from America. It is 
not unreasonable, then, to suppose that the inven- 
tive mind of this country, in reply to the added 

246 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

need caused by the country's own danger, will 
bring forth new and terrible contrivances of 
destruction. 

The War Department at Washington has 
very wisely appointed a special bureau to deal 
with new inventions. We may safely predict 
that this bureau will not be one of lesser impor- 
tance in its influence on winning the war. 

It would take the imagination of a Jules Verne 
to even dare to prophesy some of the hellish sur- 
prises that the New World may let loose on the 
enemy in the near future. Some one has sug- 
gested that the "Yanks" will be putting an elec- 
tric wire out in No Man's Land, charged with 
ten thousand volts, and electrocuting the Fritzes 
as they come over on a charge. It is a fruitful 
subject for romance, but I shall not trust myself 
on such an infinite vista. Suffice it that the 
wizardry of the American mind is fighting with 
us, and perhaps beyond our dreams and imagin- 
ings it may make itself felt in the fight. 

The Germans introduced poison gas, liquid Gie, 
and other hellish perversions of modern combat. 
They also flung away every rule of old-time 
chivalry. The Englishman was somewhat slow 
to awaken to the dirty play. Long after the 
"Marquis of Queensberry rules" had been aban- 
doned the idea of fighting fair was uppermost in 

247 



THE REAL FRONT 

his mind. But not so with the Canadians. 
The minute the dirty work began they were 
ready to meet fire with fii'e. Fritz wishes now 
when he meets us that he had played to the rules 
of the game, because in introducing dirty work 
he has found in the Colom'al a "rough-neck" 
who can always do him one better. 

I know that the Americans can be trusted 
to take care of themselves in a game like this. I 
often liken the position of New World troops in 
this war to a hockey match which I saw once 
between a slick city team and a country team 
from the backwoods of Nova Scotia. Thinking 
that they had an easy crowd, the city team 
started in to "rough-house." Before the game 
was over the brawny Nova-Scotians had literally 
mopped up the ice with the ones who began the 
dirty work. 

"That's what we always plan to do with a bad 
actor hke Fritz," I told the boys at Plattsburg. 
I could almost hear their hearts thump a loud 
Amen as they exclaimed, "We're right there with 
you, bo!" 

In the instruction at Plattsburg I was glad to 

find that they were not teaching them any "rules 

of the game." They are going prepared for 

rough and tumble, and I know that they will give 

as good as they get. 

248 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

The confidence with which Hindenburg an- 
nounced that he would mop up the Americans 
reminds one of the confidence with which 
Mrs. Partington started to mop up the ocean. 
American intervention was at first treated in 
the German press as a fact hardly worthy 
of consideration. One regrets that Mark 
Twain did not live to be able to write on 
the miscalculations of the Kaiser. His last 
and greatest miscalculation was the United 
States of America. 

The Kaiser, wdth his divine-right, medieval 
mind, could not rightly interpret the New W^orld. 
He thought first that the spirit of this country 
was quiescent. There is a current story which 
aptly expresses the spirit of this country. Some 
one said that if the United States broke with 
Germany there would be sixty thousand trained 
German soldiers spring to arms in the country. 
"Well," said an American in reply, "if they do, 
there will be sixty thousand lamp-posts to hang 
'em to." 

This is a startling reply from a man who is re- 
puted to be all milk and water. The fighting 
blood is in this land, and that blood at last is 
aroused and boiling. The Crown Prince's sleek 
hair is beginning to stand on end as he watches 
with stark terror the rising of the great New 

249 



THE REAL FRONT 

\N'orld. One can imagine his petulant tone as 
Little Willie exclaims to Big Willie, "Look what 
you've gone and started now I" 

There was a famous cartoon published in 
Flinch years ago entitled, "The Kaiser's Bad 
Dream." It represented the old Kaiser, WilHam 
I., in a dream contemplating with terror a dragon 
rising out of the eastern sea. The dragon was 
called "The Eastern Peril." In like manner ere 
long we may imagine the present Kaiser con- 
templating a new danger arising across the 
Atlantic entitled, "The Western Peril." The 
Statue of Liberty will even yet haunt the Hohen- 
zoUern di'eams. 

As I look at the skj'-line of Manhattan Island I 
see an emblem of the progressive spirit of this 
New World. I hear Lady Macbeth cr^-ing over 
her "little hands" and the sin which they have 
committed, and then, turning away from the 
shame that these "Httle hands" may commit, I 
regard the canons of iron and steel of lower 
Broadway; all this is the work of these frail, 
weak "Httle hands." Against the shame that 
these "little hands" may commit stands the 
glory- of New World achievement. The Man- 
hattan sky-line is but an emblem of that spirit 
that must siu'mount every obstacle and burst 
ever^" barrier. From the Pilgrims who crossed in 

250 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

the Mayflower to the last Slav who crossed in the 
steerage they all came because Europe was too 
cramped and confining for them. That progres- 
sive spirit which brought them to this New World 
and which is making this New World is now ris- 
ing to burst the bonds that Old World tyranny 
would thrust upon them. 

If the war continues until America gets a big 
army in the field in Europe we may depend upon 
it that these New World troops, impinging upon 
their comrades of England and France, will im- 
part much of their freshness to the Old World 
people. WTiat an experience it will be for the 
poilu who has dwelt all his life in a village of 
France, or for the cockney who has never been 
beyond the Bow Bells until these shifting scenes 
of war, when they meet as comrades the citizens 
of the boundless West! 

What vast horizon these American soldiers 
will bring to the little French homes where they 
are billeted! With what open-eyed wonder 
Madame and La Belle Demoiselle will listen in 
the Estaminets as some lad from Texas tells 
of life along the border. After the war Yankee 
slang will be heard behind the plows in Picardy, 
and gray cathedral towns will thrill with memo- 
ries of the great New World across the ocean. 
America will be more a part of France than it has 

251 



THE REAL FRONT 

been since the days of Cliamplain and the 
Coureurs de Bois. 

In happy days of peace when the hawthorn 
blooms in England, quaint towns will cherish 
happy memories of comrades loved in arms. 
Lack of knowledge, which has been the tragedy 
of Anglo-American relations, will have ceased. 
The Commonwealth of Britain and the American 
Republic will be bound forever in mutual under- 
standing. In the ale-houses of Devon there will 
be greater interest in America than there has been 
since Francis Drake came home. Strong men of 
the North Country, who cherish friendship for- 
ever, will speak with a burr about "our ain 
friends offer the sea." 

The New World troops will add freshness to the 
Old World war, and their presence will con- 
tribute to the renewal of the Old World itself. 
But it will not be for them merely an imparting 
to others. They, too, shall partake of remolding 
and changing. While the Old World has much 
to learn, she also has much to impart. Towns 
of a thousand years and of a thousand memories 
may teach Young America forgotten lessons of 
the past. 

Kipling speaks of France as: 

The first to find New Truth, 
The last to leave Old Truth behind. 
252 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

America has always been a pathfinder toward 
New Truth, but often she has left Old Truth 
behind. I heard an aged Southern gentleman, 
a veteran of the Confederacy, bemoaning the 
fact that chivalry, honor, and faith were being 
relegated to the past in this country. When the 
fiery and impetuous veteran departed one re- 
ferred to him as "an old-fashioned American." 
In the struggle after New Truth, some are be- 
ginning to leave behind the principles which were 
more than life to the old Southern soldier. 

In New York to-day we are told of a city that 
used to be, a serener city, where courtesy and 
honor ruled, a calmer, deeper city of the past. 
We well might strive to have that old New York 
restored, and France may help us in the striving. 

On the Subway the other day, where every one 
was jostling and jolting, I saw an Old World 
touch that came like something sweet and from 
far away. A big, surly bully of the Prussian type 
had just elbowed a wan-faced lady aside and 
flung himself into a seat when from across the 
aisle a true Frenchman, with all the courtesy and 
gallantry of his race, arose and bowed the old 
lady into his seat. It was not the mere act, but 
the chivalry that seemed to ring through it that 
flung its glove of Argentine into the boorishness 
of the Prussian. 

253 



THE REAL FRONT 

Good breeding, courtesy, and ancient chivalry 
still reign in France. They are among the Old 
World treasures which we may borrow from her. 
No nation can teach better than France the les- 
son that there are possessions more precious than 
life. A little French maiden in the town of 
Aire-sur-le-Lys had lost three of her brothers in 
the war; her fourth and last brother was called 
out in the 1917 class. I sympathized with her, 
but she smiled and said, sweetly, ''C'est pour 
France,'^ The depth of devotion with which 
they all say, "It is for France," brings the tears 
to my eyes. Our American lads will learn the 
profoundest truths of patriotism as they observe 
the heart of France. 

The United States will emerge from this strug- 
gle with a far more potent and clearly defined 
national sentiment. In the crucible of sacrifice, 
hyphenated ones, Irish-Americans, German- 
Americans, and all such, will pass away. Out of 
the suffering for a common cause will be born 
the spirit, which will say as devoutly as the 
little French maiden, "It is for America." Pa- 
triotism will reveal its true meaning to the masses 
in the light of the sacrifice that is to come. 

Rupert Brooke speaks of the place where an 
English soldier falls on foreign soil as "that little 
plot that is forever England." There are fields in 

254 



NEW WORLD TROOPS IN OLD WORLD WAR 

France that will be "forever America." As the 
soil of the Old World gathers to itself the blood 
of the New, that soil will become forever New 
World ground. 

"When the boys come home" they will return 
to a better New World because they have fought 
and struggled in this Old World war. 



XV 

SEKVING OUK SOLDIERS 

TN a previous chapter entitled "From the 
-■• Base to the Firing-hne'* a description was 
given of the every-day Hf e of the soldier in France 
outside of the trenches. 

We often hear such exclamations a*s, "Jack's 
in the firing-line," or, "My boy's been up in the 
trenches for two years." Judging by these ex- 
clamations, one would infer that the blessed lads 
were in the fire-trench all the time. Such an 
idea is ridiculous. I have been surprised at the 
number of people at home that suffer this 
delusion. 

As was already shown, the soldier's life in 
France has its gay times as well as its sad times. 
With the soldier as well as with the civilian there 
must be periods of rest and recreation as well 
as periods of struggle. 

During the hours in France which he has for 
play or rest the soldier presents a problem for the 
folks at home. 

256 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

When the boys come out of the trenches, after 
a long, hard stunt, when they have shed their 
filthy, lousy rags and are washed and clothed 
anew, then it is that their spirits mount high. 
They are out for a good time. They are going to 
have a jamboree, no matter how inhospitable the 
town nor how poor the opportunities for gladness. 
They will walk incredible distances, hop trains 
and motor-lorries, and by hook or by crook they 
will arrive at the nearest center of stirring life. 
As a man craves food, so also he craves the ex- 
citement of social life. The war-weary soldier 
out of the trenches for a spell is bound to find 
that life. 

Whether the life that he finds in Amiens, in 
Armentieres, in Poperinghe, or Bieuielle, or in 
any other of the towns behind the lines, is up- 
lifting or downpulling depends largely upon the 
efforts which we have made. 

Our lads can go back to these towns and 
wander about disconsolate and find nothing to 
welcome them but the cafes and the harpies, or 
they may be supplied with all kinds of legitimate 
amusements, and social blessings, because we at 
home have thought not only of their physical, 
but also of their moral, well-being. 

If the American base in France and all the 
towns along the American lines of communica- 

17 257 



THE REAL FRONT 

tion are to afford uplifting influences for the 
American troops, it will not come by chance. 
It will come because the people at home thought 
of the boys in these places and have paid the 
price in money and in service to provide the in- 
stitutions which they needed. 

The Secretary of War has instituted a wise and 
far-seeing policy in appointing Mr. Fosdick to 
look into the problem of the social well-being 
of the troops. The Secretary of War has learned 
from our experience that the casualties of im- 
morality may disqualify as effectively as the 
casualties of shell-fire, and it therefore behooves 
us to exert the utmost precaution in safeguarding 
the moral life of our troops. 

I am not referring here to coddling the soldiers. 
Some of the women at home, unfortunately, have 
been addicted to this. I heard an old Southern 
colonel in Virginia grow apoplectic over this the 
other day. "My God, sir!" he expostulated, 
"what are we coming to when the ladies treat 
troops like milksops .^^ We never had any of 
that in my day." But we needn't worry if 
the boys get a little coddling here and there; 
the dear women will not be able to do it 
long. 

In France we must multiply as far as possible 
those good agencies for serving the troops that 

£58 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

are not only uplifting, but are also strong, joyous, 
and robust. 

When Jack, or Bob, or Bill get tbeir first pass, 
and start to promenade the streets at the Amer- 
ican seaport base, I hope that they will soon find 
as many clubs, tea-rooms, canteens, cinemas, and 
good friends waiting to greet them as the British 
Tommies now have at Havre and Boulogne* 

When General Pershing's men come out of the 
line for recreation I hope that they will have far 
more facilities for legitimate amusement than 
we of the First Canadians had during our early 
months in France. 

Every precaution must be taken to safeguard 
the moral life of our soldiers, for soldiers in many 
ways are as irresponsible as children. There is a 
vast difference between a soldier and a civilian. 
The civilian represents the spirit of individualism. 
The soldier represents the spirit of collectivism. 

From the day that the raw recruit first comes 
under the drill sergeant the tendency of the army 
is to knock out his individualism and to create 
in its stead a crowd spirit. As the recruit be- 
comes more and more a soldier he thinks less and 
less of self, and more and more of the regiment. 
Finally, as a true soldier, he acts not for himself, 
but for the greater whole. Whether he lives or 
dies is secondary to the good of the regiment. 

259 



THE REAL FRONT 

It is the creating of this collective spirit that 
enables a vast body of men to act in times of 
crisis like one man. While indi\adiials thinking 
only of themselves would be hiding under the 
crashing parapets, the regiment dauntlessly goes 
over the top with the first wave. The fear of each 
man is lessened by the crowd spirit which in- 
spires him. 

This crowd spirit which proves such a strength 
to the soldier in times of danger is itself often a 
source of peril to him in times of calm. With 
this crowd spirit it is easier to go over the para- 
pet in the front line, and in like manner with this 
crowd spirit it is easier to go to hell behind the 
line. \Mierever we see a great body of men per- 
meated by this spirit there is an e\'ident slipping 
up in the moral tone. 

In the Klondike in '98 there were on every hand 
erstwhile respectable men going to the dogs. In 
the red-light sections of Dawson City one would 
see a chap buying drinks for the Mona Lisa, 
or some other demi-mondaine, and whizzing her 
about the giddy dance-hall like some old-time 
Toue. At home, in Peoria, Illinois, Bob Service 
observes, "You would have to get a certificate of 
morality to come within speaking-distance of 
this same chap's daughter." 

The explanation of this sudden and strange 

260 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

change in citizens who were yesterday emblems 
of sobriety is the crowd spirit. In the stampede 
after gold individualism was lost, and with the 
loss of individualism went idealism, which turned 
the Peoria, Illinois, Sunday-school superintendent 
into an hahitu6 of the red lights. 

This same peril is present in the army to-day. 
The very self-forgetfulness that is the soldier's 
strength against physical danger, is often his 
weakness against moral danger. That same 
spirit which makes it easier to face the foe in the 
trenches makes it easier to hit it up outside of the 
trenches. 

When we add to the downward pull of the 
crowd spirit the fact that loved ones and friends 
and home and all those nobler and finer influences 
have been removed, we realize the need of added 
effort, that in a measure at least we may com- 
pensate for those steadying influences which are 
wanting. It is therefore up to us to see that 
every possible good agency is working for our 
boys at the base, at the rest-camps, on the lines 
of communication, on the training-areas, and in 
billets. 

The seaport base offers a fruitful field for many 
civilians who are anxious to serve the fighting- 
men. The British out of their long experience 
have perfected many helpful institutions which 

261 



THE REAL FRONT 

add to the comfort and happiness of the troops, 
and which might profitably be emulated by the 
Americans. 

Canteens under the direction of capable 
women, and attended by pretty girls, offer re- 
freshment alike to drafts coming in and to 
wounded and men on leave just departing. The 
canteen has become a great institution with our 
army, and it will doubtless attain a similar im- 
I>ortance with the Americans. 

The canteens are situated in a corner of the 
freight-sheds where the troops disembark from the 
ships, at railway stations, at rest-camps, and 
other convenient points. At these canteens the 
troops are ser^'ed free with coffee, rolls, and 
sandwiches. With the men just off a troop-ship, 
or entraining at the station, there is no oppor- 
tunity for them to prepare refreshment for them- 
selves. A warm di'ink pro^-ided by these ladies 
is a real blessing, and their sweet smile is often a 
stiQ greater blessiag. 

Some canteens are far more ambitious than the 
mere rolls-and-coffee booth. They carry a large 
stock of foods, candies, and cigarettes, and sol- 
diers' necessities; indeed, they are the soldiers' 
general store. Canteens of this sort are also 
run by the Y. M. C. A. 

\Miile our battery was in action in the Ypres 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

salient in 1916 we used to keep our officers' mess 
supplied with canned goods and shredded wheat 
from a Y. M. C. A. canteen situated in a cellar 
of Ypres. 

Soup-kitchens have become quite common on 
the lines of communication and at the base. 
They are almost entirely run by women. Some 
soup-kitchens serve only the wounded; others 
are for the benefit of troops on the move. The 
soup is made up in gallons in great boilers. Each 
Tommy always has his canteen on his hip, and 
one by one, with smiling faces, they file by while 
the charming girls and motherly women who at- 
tend the kitchen ladle out the steaming soup. 
"Gol blyme me, matie," exclaimed one cockney 
to another, " I don't know which I loikes best, the 
'ot broth or the loidy's foice." 

Some of the best women of England, both 
young and middle-aged, have been engaged in 
serving in these canteens and soup-kitchens. I 
saw the elder daughter of Premier Lloyd George 
busily helping in a canteen one day in Boulogne. 
Lady Angela Forbes established a bath place for 
the troops near Boulogne. The army handles 
public baths for the soldiers, but with the Eng- 
lishman's love of being clean a bath is always a 
longed-for luxury. Hence the added facilities in 
this direction are greatly appreciated. There 

263 



THE REAL FRONT 

are now a number of free baths instituted by dif- 
ferent societies in various places. 

One finds the Y. M. C. A. not only at the base, 
but everywhere where the troops are congre- 
gated, even right up to the support trenches. 
On the Somme last year I used to remark on the 
sign of the Red Triangle which appeared outside 
of a Y. M. C. A. dugout in a most unwholesome 
area. The Y. M. C. A., embracing in its sen^ice 
the whole army, irrespective of creed or belief, is 
the real solution for the problem of serving the 
troops. 

At the base they always have a perfect equip- 
ment for entertainments, mo\Tng-picture shows, 
religious sendees, and social gatherings. Their 
plant includes reading and social rooms, games, 
phonographs, pianos, baths, lunch-counters, and, 
in short, everything necessary to improve the 
social well-being of the enlisted men. Up in the 
shelled area the Y. M. C. A. carry on their work 
in cellars, ruined buildings, tents, shacks, dug- 
outs, and all kinds of unlikely places. 

The opportunities for letter-writing offered by 
the Y. M. C. A. are especially appreciated not 
only by the troops, but by their friends at home. 
In the huts or tents there is always the requisite 
material for writing. The total amount of letter- 
paper consumed by the American troops already 

264 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

amounts to a million sheets of paper and a half 
a million envelopes a day. This is a slight 
example of the magnitude of the undertaking. 

Mr. Baker, Secretary of War, has said of the 
Y. M. C. A., "It provides for the social side — the 
home side of the life of the soldiers, and its in- 
fluence in rationalizing the strange environment 
into which this crisis has plunged our young men 
has been and will be most beneficent." 

My observation of the Y. M. C. A. in France is 
that it is the best possible way through which one 
at home can serve the lads at the front. A pub- 
lic-spirited American asked me the other day, 
"What is the most effective means by which I 
can invest my money for the social well-being of 
our troops?" I answered, "Unquestionably the 
Y. M. C. A." They have perfected the system 
of service to the troops until it has become an 
indispensable part of the army, by its very na- 
ture outside of the regular establishment, but 
nevertheless an absolutely essential arm of the 
service. There is a good deal of quackery and 
trumpery in the many mushroom philanthropies 
that spring up in war-time. It is therefore a 
relief for one to have the Y. M. C. A. as an au- 
thentic institution, where every cent invested for 
service will bring the greatest possible return to 
those for whom it was intended. 

265 



THE REAL FBOXT 



An offiecEs* ddb wldcii was started m Boidogiie 
■Qirilis^^gD lias proved a great boon. Tbe 
Y. M. C. A. and oOer ketitiitiins cader to the 
cnfistfid men. Oa ac muni o£ tlicB- poaitiaB, of- 
ficers cannoi nmi^ too £aniiliaii(^ witli theiank 
and fikp aoid in cmseqpKBfse tlie soldier B geaer- 
allj £ar better caicd for tlian tbe officer m icgaid 
to sodal insliLuliaii&. KcaKiing tbis e^ccial 
need, a nnmba' ol wise and iml^ip-spiFited folk 
atbcmegot tqgetkerandor^^ziz-^ It "Peers' 
dob at Bookene. Ibis c ^ 

cntiEe bwildJHS, witli hedz _^ rrs 

eagMOBS or goiag may sptBc 7 is 

also a leadiiigHEoaB, a soc: i '^ zrst- 



In tibe eailjr daqrs of tbe war I remember wan- 
deiiiig dJMfinaniateiy all oTer Bonkgne. Tbe 
sMxaaec Fiendk town offered no place of hoeqiital- 
hy. Bat to^aqr tbe QScos' dob bas become 
atopeeahi«aeanda{^aceof sodalfoigrtbfTiBg 
to aD itineiant officeia.. Similar cfadis ba^e sraoe 
up at St. Cbner, Popeiiq^be, and otber 
on fines of eorarannieatian and wdD ap 
toward die front. IbeAmeiicansndi^alaodo 
wen to emulate our nample in oiginiifTTg similar 
officers* ciiih& 

Ofeie wotd of adriee m^t not be on. ice 

nt } *"ilii^ d>c arwling of parods t: s 



SERVING OUR SOLDIERS 

in France. There are three staple articles that 
are always most welcome to the soldiers — 
chocolate, cigarettes, and chewing-gum. These 
articles are portable and can be easily shipped and 
they are always serviceable. Simplicity should 
always be the guide in making up packages for 
France. Hard chocolate is a food, indeed the 
best ration for emergency. Cigarettes help to 
while away the heavy hours on the front line. 
Wrigley's celebrated chewing-gum is an article 
for which I hold no advertising brief, but our 
boys in France have blessed the name of Wrigley. 
Gum-chewing may appear vulgar, but it is sooth- 
ing to the nerves. When a man's mouth is dry 
from the terror of shell-fire, chewing-gum has its 
compensations. 

In sending parcels I would give one word of 
caution. Shun the inventions that are palmed 
off by enterprising merchants as indispensable 
additions to the soldiers' equipment. These in- 
ventions may appear pretty to you on the shop 
counter, but they are generally useless in the 
trenches. While in France I received an 
abundance of such trash from well-meaning, 
kind-hearted friends. A man in the trenches 
does not need much in the line of equipment, 
and all these necessaries are provided by 
ordnance. 

267 



THE REAL FRONT 

In our desire to assist the boys in France we 
should always remember that our efforts must 
find expression through regularly organized so- 
cieties that have the official recognition; other- 
wise it would be impossible to do anything. I 
knew a lady in Richmond, England, who was 
frightfully vexed and declared that she would 
do no more work for the soldiers because the 
War Office required her to work through recog- 
nized channels, instead of carrying on petty little 
schemes in her own way. In the army, with 
civilians as with soldiers, everything must come 
under regulations. The folks at home must al- 
ways remember this fundamental requirement of 
discipline. 



XVI 

A CRADLE OF OUR VICTORIES 

T TEART of this land and hope of this nation 
-■■-■• is the Barrack Square at Plattsburg. For 
the casual observer that camp on the enchanting 
shore of Lake Champlain is merely a sight of pass- 
ing interest. For those who have eyes to see, 
it is the beginning of a new page in American 
history. 

Those in America who are awake realize that 
this country is tiptoeing on the threshold of a 
glorious epoch. For them the Barrack Square 
of the training-camp is pregnant with victories 
of the nation that are yet to be. In the crowded 
cantonments of Plattsburg are boys of unknown 
name whose heroic deeds may even yet be told 
to children's children. 

When Jeffries and Johnson fought for the 
championship of the world the eyes of all America 
were on their respective training-camps. How 
much more should the eyes of America be on the 
camp where she herself is training for that greater 

269 



THE REAL FRONT 

gladiatorial cx)mbat enwrapping her own destiny ! 
Plattsburg is one of the most interesting places 
in America to-day. On the way thither om- car 
passed through the glories of the Adirondacks, 
but I must confess that I was far more intent on 
seeing the place where this coimtry's history' is in 
the making than I was on regarding the beauties 
of nature along the way. 

Three years before, in August, 1914, I was 
training with the First Canadian Division at Val 
Cartier. Fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind, 
and also wondrous keen. With a sympathy and 
a ciu'iosity rarely experienced, I regarded the 
rows of huts and the sand-pits and the rifle- 
ranges that marked the outlines of the camp. 

At first sight this might have been one of Eng- 
land's great training-centers at SaHsbury Plains 
or Aldershot, then the appearance of felt hats and 
the absence of fixed bayonets and punctihous 
ceremony marked it as truly American. 

The headquarters was situated in a large brick 
building, to which I went. Unchallenged by any 
sentries, and without any clinking of spurs or 
clanking of steel, I found myself in the com- 
mandant's office. 

"This is more like going in to see a college 
president than going in to see a commanding 
officer," I said to myself. Ever}' where was ab- 

270 



A CRADLE OF OUR VICTORIES 

sence of that ostentation and military display 
which, as a British soldier, had been bred into 
my bone. How some of my good English 
friends would have been shocked at this ignoring 
of tradition ! But being a true Westerner, I was 
delighted. 

In his quiet inner office I found Colonel Wolf, 
deep in his morning correspondence. In the 
outer rooms the typewriters were clicking, while 
a breeze through the open window brought the 
sound of marching troops. 

On looking at Colonel Wolf I felt, by that un- 
erring instinct of the service, that I was regarding 
a true soldier. Some of the fuss and feathers of 
Old World militarism might be missing here, but 
under the man was the same soldierly spirit and 
the same iron discipline. 

While I sat in the office the colonel attended 
to several men who were leaving that morning. 
Every day, for mental or physical shortcomings, 
or for weakness of heart, a certain number are 
dropped. If you would know what is going on 
at Plattsburg, take your Bible and read the 
seventh chapter of the Book of Judges. This 
ancient story is being repeated in the United 
States to-day. As Gideon picked his three hun- 
dred from the thirty thousand, so America is 
picking her three thousand from the ten million. 

271 



THE REAL FRONT 

Carlyle says the king is the man who can. The 
men who survive the Plattsburg test will all be 
kings, men who can, and as such they will be 
officers by divine right. 

One thing that pleased me in Colonel Wolf's 
interviews w^th the young men that came before 
him was his kindly attitude toward them all. 
The army, always a despotism, is, alas, too in- 
frequently, a benevolent despotism. It was a 
rare pleasure to see a high officer treat mere un- 
derlings with the deference which the com- 
mandant here showed to all. 

In company with Colonel Wolf I made a tour 
around the camp, inspecting its equipment, and 
observing the men at their various tasks. No 
'varsity team out for the season's trophy were 
more keen than the training troops. Every man 
appeared to be in deadly earnest. Nothing ap- 
peals so much to an officer as to see his men 
really trying, and here every man was doing his 
best. 

As I watched a group of men marching by 
with sloped arms from the rifle-ranges, there 
seemed to come to me a momentary din from that 
far-off battle-line; then, looking at the placid 
scenery, involuntarily I exclaimed, "It's a long 
way to Tipperary !" These boys will soon enough 
have their share of the awful line; meanwhile, 

272 



A CRADLE OF OUR VICTORIES 

in this peaceful sanctuary they are learning well 
their Spartan lessons for the iron days ahead. 

The training is mainly under the direction of 
regular officers from West Point, than whom there 
are no finer officers in the world. These regular 
officers have added to their experience the best 
counsel of the military advisers from the British 
and French missions. The training given is the 
best that our past experience can devise. 

The first and main task in the making of an 
army is to develop a soldierly spirit in each in- 
dividual, so that he ceases to act as an individual 
and becomes one of a greater whole. Inculcating 
discipline is the pre-eminent task of Plattsburg, 
and this quality is the backbone of the army. 
They are getting the lessons of discipline better 
than we got them at Val Cartier, and just as they 
are getting them in all of England's and Canada's 
training-camps to-day. 

When the inculcating of discipline has been 
accomplished, all other tasks easily and naturally 
follow. Without this quality all other tasks 
would fail. Several so-called war correspondents 
who have been writing on the training of Amer- 
ican troops have uttered strictures against the 
present system: "Why don't they get busy and 
give the real bayonet-work.^^" "Where's the in- 
struction in bombing and in intrenching?" 

I8 273 



THE REAL FRONT 

These later lessons have not been tackled yet, 
because it is necessary to learn the alphabet be- 
fore we begin to read. Discipline is the alphabet 
of soldiering. 

In my morning tour with the colonel T saw the 
official side of the camp, but I wanted also to see 
the human side, to mix with the men who made 
up the rank and file. Accordingly, after lunch, 
I set out on my own to chum in with the boys. 
It was Saturday afternoon, a half-holiday, the 
first respite since 5.30 a.m. last Monday. Those 
who know something of the birth-pains of a new 
army, of its agonizing and unceasing toil, know 
how sweet indeed is that half-day of rest. 

The camp swarmed with groups of soldiers, 
some loitering about, others basking in the sun. 
A lady seated in a limousine blandly remarked, 
"A soldier's life is an awfully lazy one, isn't it.^" 
I looked at her and smiled. *'' Ignorance is bliss, 
madam," I replied. What did she know of those 
man-breaking, heartbreaking hours that were 
crowded between reveille and taps each day.^ 

In a dry canteen, that is, a drinking-place with 
nothing wetter than ginger-beer, a young friend 
took me to slake my thirst. The place was full 
of soldiers, to whom my guide introduced me as 
an officer back from the front. I have talked 
with several interested audiences since returning, 

274 



A CRADLE OF OUR VICTORIES 

but never have I experienced anything like the 
eagerness with which these embryonic officers 
hung on my every word relating to the war and 
the conditions in the line. As with us at Val 
Cartier in 1914, so with them the chief worry 
was, "The war may be over before we get there." 
The same impetuousness to serve that charac- 
terized my comrades of the First Canadian Di- 
vision characterizes these lads at Plattsburg. 

Outside, in front of one of the huts, I found a 
large group cleaning rifles. A first lieutenant 
standing by gave me a smile. 

"You are in the Regulars.^" I inquired. 

"No," he replied. "Why did you think so.?" 

"Well," I answered, "partly because of your 
manner, and partly because of the set of your 
back and shoulders. You look as though you 
had done your three years on the parade-square." 

"No," he said, "I used to row on the Yale 
crew, and that's where I got my set-up." 

In company with this fine-looking young of- 
ficer and an ex all-American football star I set 
out to visit the ladies' booth, an excellent institu- 
tion where sweethearts and wives may forgather 
when they come to visit their men-folk. The 
afternoon-tea crowd on the veranda brought 
very vivid memories of Old England. 

My guides next took me to the rifle-ranges, 

275 



THE REAL FRONT 

and then, being an ex-cavalryman, I gravitated 
to the cavalry -lines, where I sympathized with 
the mounted men, who were cavalrymen only in 
name, as they were drilled without horses. 

One corporal of horse with an amazing reper- 
torie of strong language cursed Bill Kaiser into 
the lowest hell into which I have yet heard him 
consigned, because, he declared, the Kaiser had 
made war a hoof-sloggers' game. 

After talking more or less intimately with 
several score of the Plattsburg cadets, I was 
struck by the fact that they represented the 
aristocracy of America. I do not mean by that 
the moneyed class, but rather the aristocracy of 
true worth. These men are the noble ones of the 
country, and, as such, the rank and file instinc- 
tively must give them deference. 

Fortescue, in his Military History, says that 
British soldiers would sooner follow an eighteen- 
year-old school-boy just out of Eton than a 
grizzled old sergeant of twenty years' cam- 
paigning. A true oflBcer must be an aristocrat or, 
as Tommy Atkins puts it, "a toff in his own 
right." Such are the Plattsburg cadets. 

Two things that make my faith in Plattsburg 
are: first, the quality of the men who are being 
trained there; they are the born leaders from 
the aristocracy of the country; and, second, the 

27a 



A CRADLE OF OUR VICTORIES 

training of these men is concentrated on dis- 
cipline, which, since the days of the Spartans, 
has been the bed-rock of soldiering. 

Napoleon's maxim, that the French, with good 
officers, could beat the world, still holds true, 
and it is equally applicable for Americans. The 
portents are all of the best for the new officers 
who are being made at Plattsburg. 



XVII 

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

rjlOWARD the close of a somber afternoon, in 
-*• rain and mist, I stood before the Estaminet 
de Commerce in the city of Lilliers. The melan- 
choly autumn season had come, and the specter 
of approaching winter in the trenches loomed 
before us. 

It was a mournful throng of soldiers and civil- 
ians that stood there waiting and silently shiver- 
ing, or stamping wet feet on the fave of the 
Grand Place. The spirit of the throng and the 
funeral aspect of the day itself were sadly in keep- 
ing with the occasion which had brought us 
together. 

Through the Grand Place, with arms reversed 
to the wailing music of the "Dead March" in 
Saul, came a column of marching troops. Over 
the "pave rattled a gun-carriage, bearing a box 
entwined with the Union Jack. Lieut. -Gen. Sir 
Thomson Capper was being borne to his grave. 
The far-famed and gallant general of the Iron 

278 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

Division had fallen two days before in the awful 
fighting at Loos, and now his comrades were giv- 
ing him the soldiers' last farewell. 

Many times I had encountered the Seventh, or 
Iron, Division. Sir Thomson Capper was a 
name to conjure with along the western front. 
Only a short time before one of his own Northum- 
berland Hussars had held forth to me on the 
deeds of the Iron Division, from their belated ar- 
rival at Antwerp to their historic stand at 
Ypres. "And it's all because of our general, it 
is," declared the trooper. "He's the fightin'est 
general on the line." 

On Sunday afternoon Sir Thomson Capper 
stood directing his men in a frightful and bloody 
encounter. This was nothing new to him or to 
his Iron Division. Ever since the autumn of 
1914 they had been winning their name by cease- 
less fighting in such battles. On that fateful 
Sunday afternoon General Capper was shot 
through the lungs. He was carried to the rear, 
and died in hospital next day. "We are here to 
do the impossible," was the fiery watchword 
which he left with his troops. 

And now, on that Tuesday evening in Sep- 
tember, all that was mortal of our "fightin'est 
general" went by on a gun-carriage. His career 
of luster and renown was ended. The keeping 

279 



THE REAL FRONT 

up of the resplendent glories of the Iron Division 
had fallen into other hands. 

As the cortege passed the place where we were 
standing, our irregular shifting mass suddenly 
became rigid as every soldier came to the salute, 
a salute that bespoke the soldier's deepest 
feeling. 

A half-hour after the general's funeral I saw 
many of the faces lately darkened by sorrow 
again radiant and fair. AVliatever clouds might 
be without, true soldiers never suffer them long 
within. 

Last night was a restless and tumultuous one. 
This evening there is a momentary lull. It is 
the lull in the storm. The nerves are tensely 
waiting for the thunders that shall break again; 
but, meanwhile, in that gay forgathering of the 
Estaminet de Commerce, there is no place for sad 
repining. 

Death we regard as a very unpleasant fellow at 
home. We are cowards when he appears. The 
sight of the hearse in the street, or the crepe on 
the door, gives us chill premonitions. But 
death, whom we evade so well in days of peace, 
is ever present in a world of war. 

At home in the good old world of peace we 
speak of the Angel of Death. His rare but tragic 
visitations are cataclysms in our homes. "Over 

280 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

There" it is no longer the Angel of Death. We 
must say Angels of Death "Over There," for 
they fly in legions. One is ever dwelling beneath 
the shadow of their withering wings. On the 
right and left, comrades are always falling, until 
what was cataclysmic in our homes becomes 
incidental in our trenches. 

In the family circle the passing of a loved one 
is like a fixed star falling out of heaven. At the 
front it is one of the events that make up the 
warp and woof of every day. 

"Forgetting those things which are behind'* 
must ever be the soldier's motto. Our dearest 
pal slept here last night. To-night his sleeping- 
bag is empty. With wistful eyes I gaze across 
the dugout at his place, and as I think of all our 
months of sweetest comradeship so rudely ended 
the tears are welling up into my eyes. But tears 
and the tender past must wait in this stern present. 

A loud rapping is heard from without, and in 
explosive notes of alarm a voice cries forth, 
"S O S! Battery action!" Up under the 
scintillant flare of the star-shells there is a sud- 
den burst of hectic light and a muffled roar. 
Up there beneath that flare some of our boys are 
dying, and others in frantic tones cry forth for 
us to save them. We read their cries in trailing 
rockets through the night. 

281 



THE REAL FRONT 

"Forgetting the things which are behind," we, 
the servants of the guns, must leap to action, and 
give back our thunders in answer to that cry. 

Gone is the moment of tender memories and of 
welling tears. Old John, our loved and trusty 
pal, is missing, but his place is filled. Sharp 
and clear the orders ring out, just as Old John 
would have rung them. The crack of an 
eighteen-pounder answers, while a howitzer bays 
beside, and in another minute a thousand guns 
are talking. 

Peace gives us time to mourn, but war knows 
no such respite; and perhaps it is just as well, for 
otherwise the weight of sorrow would engulf us. 

Now and again, as I have moved up and down 
behind the various portions of our line, in France 
or Flanders, I have paused for contemplation in 
one of our great and ever-growing cemeteries. 
Everywhere behind the lines one encounters 
these tragic, yet soul-enkindling, plots of ground 
that have been forever hallowed by the bones 
of our brave. 

Who can regard the grave of a man who died 
for his country without experiencing emotions 
that lie too deep for words? On such spots one 
enters into the inner meaning of the sacrifice of 
Calvary. "For what greater thing can a man 
do than to lay down his life for a friend?" 

282 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

In front of Westminster Abbey there is a 
column, erected to the dead heroes of West- 
minster School. Many a time, as a lad, I have 
stood in front of that column and read in solemn 
silence its inscription: 

To those Boys educated at Westminster School who 
died in the Russian and Indian Wars, Anno Domini 1854 
to 1858, some in early youth, some full of years and honor, 
some on the field of battle, some from wounds and sick- 
ness, but who all alike gave their hves for their country. 

This column is erected by their old school-fellows, at 
Westminster School, with the hope that it may inspire in 
their successors the same courage and self-devotion. 

On the reverse side of the column I read the 
long list of names, from Field-Marshal Lord 
Raglan, the commander-in-chief, to the youngest 
cornet and middy who had died. From the 
school quadrangle came the merry laughter of 
Westminster boys at play, and, standing there, 
there came upon my soul the first dawning of that 
sacrifice which soldiers make when they lay down 
their lives for their country. 

During the armistice between the first and 
second Balkan wars I was in Egypt. Traveling 
one day across the desert, I alighted at a station 
called Tel-el-Kebir. Here Wolseley won his vic- 
tory over Arabi in 1882. On that January day 
of 1913 I found a single building, serving as a 
railroad station, and beside it a cemetery, with 

283 



THE REAL FRONT 

its rows of crosses, drawn up in as orderly a 
fashion as a company on parade. 

I entered the cemetery, and the first name I 
read was that of Lachlan MacTavish, of a certain 
Scottish regiment. The burr of his Highland 
name sounded like the rush of a mountain tairn 
in his far-off Highland home. For the moment 
I seemed to feel the freshness from the moorlands 
and the heather, then my eye caught the pathetic 
little cross that stood amid the shifting of the 
desert sands. There, as never before, I reahzed 
the sacrifice of those who laid down their lives on 
a foreign soil in the ser\'ice of their flag. 

A yet profounder realization of this sacrifice 
was borne upon me one evening in June, 1915. 
That night I entered the trenches beyond Gi- 
venchy town for the first time. 

At twilight I turned in from the La Basse 
Canal, crossed a field to the main street of 
Givenchy, and proceeded down into the town. 
The place was completely abandoned, and had 
been badly ruined by shell-fire. Li that twilight 
hour the streets were full of haunted houses, in- 
stinct with ghosts and memories. A solitary 
dog, leaping across a T\Tecked bridge that hung 
by a single trestle, appeared like a ghoulish 
creature. 

One was oppressed by these haunting shadows 

«84 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

in wliat had once been Givenchy homes, far more 
than one was by the frequent note of shells pass- 
ing over the town. In one quaint house, whose 
wall had been crushed in, I saw a little cradle. 
What eloquence of tragedy was there! 

In a saddened mood I approached the dis- 
tillery. In one of the houses opposite a grand 
piano still remained intact. The Fifth Royal 
Highlanders of Canada were coming out of the 
trenches that night. The first company was 
already out, and one of their musicians was play- 
ing, "To You^ Beautiful Lady in Pinhy^ upon 
the inharmonious and strident instrument. 

Up and down in the rooms of the adjacent 
houses the Highlanders were cake-walking, some 
with their packs still on their backs. The burst- 
ing of several shells in a side-street only served 
to accentuate the comedy of the scene. WTiat- 
ever else happened, this battalion was going out, 
so the musician pounded the keys in ecstasy, 
and the boys cake-walked with equal glee. 

Through the shadowy distillery I wended my 
way with a higher spirit from the contagious mer- 
riment of the Highlanders. Beyond the dis- 
tillery was another open field, and a farm- 
yard with the buildings long since razed to the 
ground. Hardly a stone was left standing in this 
spot. The enemy's shells had surely reaped 

285 



THE REAL FRONT 

good harvest here. Beside the ruined farm was 
the witness of a still sadder harvest. A ceme- 
tery, with its row on row of little wooden crosses, 
stretched out toward the communicating 
trenches. 

The night was falling fast, and there in the 
gathering gloom I waited for over an hour for the 
last company coming in. In the darkness one was 
especially touched by the meaning of those little 
crosses. In fitful light beneath the star-shells 
these crosses loomed before me in momentary 
flashes, then faded in the night. 

How profound was the peace that lingered 
round that spot! In front of me I could see the 
white glare that marked the firing-line, whence 
came now and then the rattle of musketry, the 
popping of machine-guns, or the crump of burst- 
ing shells. 

Behind me in Givenchy town the artist was 
still performing on the grand piano. "The Pink 
Lady" was the limit of his repertoire, but the 
Irrepressibles still danced on. Between the grim 
firing-line, on the one hand, and the revelry of the 
Highlanders, on the other, stretched those little 
wooden crosses. In their quiet plot the brave 
slept well that night, for they had done their 
duty. 

Their work was finished, and well might they 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

sleep on, knowing that those comrades whom 
they left behind would carry on in their stead, 
and that, even as they, their comrades behind 
would be faithful unto death. 

From our line the rattle of rifles told me that 
England was busy and that our troops up there 
were keeping their faith with their pals who had 
died. 

"I've copped it, mate; swat 'em one for me," 
were the dying words of a game little cockney. 

"Go about your duty," was the last speech of 
the stricken Colonel MacLean of the Sixth 
Gordons, to those who paused in the fighting to 
attend to him. 

What all these dead required was that the 
living should fight on, and thus keep faith with 
them. Up and down that bivouac of the dead 
I seemed to feel their unseen sentry walking. 
Where they had pitched their silent tents they, 
too, had set their silent picket. That night, 
above those shadowy graves, the sentry of the 
dead paused and listened. From the line came 
the sound of fighting. From behind came the 
voice of revelry and song. And this was as it 
should be. Not in repining, but in gladness, 
must the soldier spend his resting hours. Soon, 
perchance, that Highlander who was pounding 
out "The Pink Lady," and all his jolly dancers, 

287 



THE REAL FRONT 

would join these dead in their narrow beds. But 
there they were playing their part as true soldiers. 

I seemed to hear the sentry of the dead cry 
out that night: "All's well! All's well!" The 
brave might sleep their sleep in peace, because 
their comrades behind were doing their duty. 

In France one encounters soldiers' graves in 
all kinds of unlikely places. Right in the front- 
line trenches before Hill 60 there was a little 
wooden cross with the name of a French soldier 
painted on it. The soldier fell away back in the 
first months of the war, when everything was 
fluid and the tide of war vras shifting back and 
forth. Soon after tliat our lines locked and froze, 
and ever since he has been sleeping in that fright- 
ful place known as Our Front. 

For months that little cross had stood there, 
while landmarks all about had been wiped 
out, while the tower of the Cloth Hall had been 
pulverized, and the Verbranden Windmill splin- 
tered to kindling-wood. I have often paused 
up there on the front line, after a nasty "strafe" 
from Fritz, and regarded with awe that immortal 
wooden cross. With parapets crumpled in in 
many places, and the ground about pocked with 
shell-holes, amid all tliis wild havoc the simple 
memorial to the dead French soldier seemed to 
bear a charm. 

288 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

At home we have a cemetery in a place of 
rustic peace, looking down to where the ships 
go out to sea. There in their snug haven 
the dead forgot their storms. But under the 
wooden cross, up there in the front-line trench, 
the fallen French soldier slept just as soundly 
as they. Mines might be sprung around his 
grave, and months of storms and thunders 
roll across his resting-place, but the inviolate 
cross remained, an emblem of his peace un- 
broken. 

One day on the Somme, while moving over a 
fresh battle-field, looking for a new position for 
our guns, I chanced upon the grave of a corporal 
of the East Surrey Regiment. 

He had been hastily buried, just where he fell 
upon the field of battle. There had been no time 
for ceremony or for the planting of a cross. His 
rifle had been thrust into the ground to mark the 
grave, and his soldier's cap was placed upon the 
mound of turf to serve as a memorial. That 
little weather-beaten khaki cap was unobserved 
by many, but to those who saw it was a memorial 
as eloquent as costly marble. As I bent over to 
examine the grave I saw a shingle on which some 
rough hand had scribbled a short text with an 
indelible pencil. The rains had washed blue 
streaks across the writing. One could just de- 

19 289 



THE REAL FRONT 

cipher the text. It wa^, "Thou art forever with 
the Lord." 

The rough soldier's epitaph brought to mind a 
visit which I had made to the Catacombs of St, 
CaHxtus. There on the tomb of a baby girl I 
read iu Greek, "Dearest Cleo, sweetest child, 
thou art forever with the Lord." 

To encounter such evidences of faith on the 
battle-field of the Somme or ia the Catacombs of 
St. Calixtus was to feel instinctively that here at 
last was the real thing, blatters of faith were 
dark enough on the Somme, but to read the hope 
of that Tommy was like the bursting forth from 
darkness of some serene and shining star. 

I was in the Ypres salient in April, 1915, and 
back there agaia iu the spring of 1916. That 
bloody and awful salient is a vast graveyard of 
Canada's fairest and best. 

A young Canadian officer, who was a comrade 
of mine, told me how that in the summer of 1913 
he left the city of Ypres, a cameo of priceless 
beauty, with the splendor of its Cloth Hall and 
its cathedral and its guilds, and took the tram- 
line out to Kmystrsesthenk Comer. Alightiog 
there, he and his sister crossed the fields where the 
daisies and anemones were growiug, and regaled 
themselves iu the wondrous charm of that Flem- 
ish landscape. Now on those same fields that 

^90 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

officer is sleeping, and in summers to come the 
flowers that spring up there shall wave above his 
grave. 

On fine mornings in June as I have been coming 
in or going out from our battery position I have 
passed through the grounds of Bedford House 
and Belgian Chateau, and I have marveled at 
what must have been the exceeding beauty of 
that place in times of peace. A wistful loveliness 
still lingers round the ruins. If in the past light 
hearts have journeyed there for scenes of beauty, 
in years to come a host of deeper hearts will 
journey there as to a shrine. 

If where an Englishman is buried on a foreign 
soil is called "a little bit of England," then we 
may call the Ypres salient a mighty bit of 
Canada. If any one were to inquire what is the 
most important city of Canada, we might answer, 
unhesitatingly, "The city of Ypres." The hosts 
of our young men who have fallen in battles 
round that city have hallowed the name for all 
Canadian hearts, and rendered the place ours in 
the deepest sense. 

Montreal, and Halifax, and Vancouver, are 
among our lesser cities, but Ypres, where so many 
of our brave are buried, shall remain for us the 
city of our everlasting possessions. In years to 
come, the touchstone for the Maple Leaf will 

291 



THE REAL FBO.VT 

not be "QueeiistDini's Hrigfats amd Ijoo^s 
Irae," but "Tprcs and I^emauk." 
I stood one ni^ en a cntun UB tikat coBi- 

off Oe 



out. Tlieie iliai; njght, bgr its idbite tnil cf 
fi^bt, we cnold trace ffe cnmae off die 
for maa^ nAs tbrai^ 



Just to oar kffl tie fine off ^^ jatled far ont, 
kne cape into tlie aea. '"IVbat k tbat 
jiittiiig-ort plaise?" no;" Uend inqoired. 

''Hiat,'' I aiKWCved, **» die Ypres safienl, Ike 
bloodier ai^ off tihe B^sisii fine." 

Xo mnwlMMt tihe name off Ypves is to bxve cne's 
waamm^ amaloened widi m Tcntable kakidosoope 
off picturesL Tbat tiafl off %ht diai jotted oat 
into tbe m^bt bMibsd fike a. ope^ and an iron 
it bas been ibiiw^gb HMWiihs and jcais off 
But Ike baifiog off tbat cqpe bas been at 
an awfbl csost, and tiicre wms not an indi akpg 
tbat traXng &ie off H^A tbat bad not cost its 
fzn&qg fine off blood. 

Inst after fbe first g» attscl Iz A 1 15, 

Ike vkole ooonlryside ivas : . Tbe 

mads wtre SBed widi ciiifiai £ 

dovn tsuuntiyy and wilb fimr- 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

troops hastening up. I was passing through the 
town of Vlamerthigne, which is situated two 
miles beyond Ypres. In a field at the side of the 
road I saw a funeral party. It consisted of sev- 
eral pioneers, serving as grave-diggers, a gray- 
headed Scottish major, and a corporal's guard to 
act as firing-party. 

I learned that this inconspicuous group were 
burying the last original officer of a battalion of 
the Cameron Highlanders. The dead officer was 
a young subaltern, and the gray-haired old major 
was his father, who had come from another regi- 
ment to attend the funeral of his son. 

As they were lowering the body, wrapped in a 
gray blanket, into a grave, the old major re- 
monstrated: "No, not there, not there! He 
fought with his men in life, and he shall be 
buried with them in death." 

So, over in a great, deep trench, where a num- 
ber of the rank and file of the fallen Camerons 
were already laid, the body of their dead subal- 
tern was placed. As I saw the officer and his 
men of that bonnie Highland regiment thus laid 
to rest together, I thought of the requiem of 
Saul and Jonathan, "They were beautiful in 
their lives, and in their deaths they were not 
divided." 

As the rifles rang out in a volley for the last 

293 



THE REAL FRONT 

farewell a passing squadron of the Bengal 
Lancers, crack cavalry from the Khyber Pass, 
halted suddenly and came to the salute. Thus 
troopers from the Highlands of India paid their 
last respects to a fallen comrade from the High- 
lands of Scotland. 

I was out of the trenches in hospital at the time 
that my dearest friend in France was killed. On 
first retmroing to the front I did not have the 
coiu-age to visit his grave. I sent some of my 
men to plant flowers there, and after a time I 
went myseK. That was my most poignant mo- 
ment in France. 

The flowers had sprung up and were blooming 
on his grave, and a little white cross stood there 
with the name of my beloved pal upon it. Xear 
by stood another cross, bearing the name of his 
brother. I thought of what they two had done 
for their coimtry, and of what their widowed 
mother had given, and beside those two white 
crosses all that we li^-ing ones called sacrifice 
seemed to grow pale and fade into insignificance. 

Verbranden Moulin, Hill 60, and Mount Sorrel 
are three hills to the left of Ypres. For Flanders 
in the summer of 1914 they were points in a 
landscape of beauty. For Canada to-day they 
are triple landmarks of glorv- and sorrow. 

One morning in August, 1916, our brigade of 

£94 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

artillery said "Good-by" to "Wipers." With 
mingled feelings I turned back in my saddle and 
gazed long and intently at the tragic place that 
had cost us so much of our precious blood. The 
towers of the Cloth Hall and the cathedral were 
in ruins. The high steeple of the Poperinghe 
church still stood. I was glad to bid these land- 
marks all good-by, but in those fields and hills be- 
yond I left my heart with many a fallen comrade. 
Often since my heart has journeyed back there to 
those same tragic fields in which they sleep. 
But I know that they are sleeping well, in the 
repose of those whose work is nobly done. 

I think that some of our American allies, who 
are new to the sacrifice of this war, have not yet 
entered into its deeper and hidden meaning. As 
the long lists of inevitable American casualties 
appear in the newspapers, we must not get 
into a panic of the soul, we must not pity the men 
who have fallen. They need no pity, and could 
they speak they would repudiate such maudlin 
sentiment. 

If the fallen brave could talk to us, we know 
that it would be to tell us to envy them, and not 
to pity them, because their lives have found so 
glorious an ending. 

Idealism wanes in prosperity and waxes in ad- 
versity. England has become a new England 

295 



THE REAL FRONT 

out of the adversities of tliis war, and in the same 
struggle a new America will be born. 

I met a certain woman at dinner not long ago, 
a representative of that prosperous type of fe- 
male referred to by the prophet Amos as the 
*'Kine of Bashan." She waved her hands and 
deplored the fact that "poor dear General 
Pershing had to go to France!" 

I said to her, "Madam, what are soldiers for?" 

She replied, "Oh yes, but we may lose him!" 

I answered: "Did you lose Stonewall Jackson 

when he died gloriously fighting at Chancellors- 

ville? Did you lose any of your brave who have 

died for their country?" 

Corporal Fisher was a college boy in Canada 
in the spring of 1914. In the spring of 1915 
he was the bastion of the British line at Ypres. 
Only a school-boy yesterday; but to-day, with 
the gray waves of Germans rolling toward him, 
he and his machine-gun were the rock on which 
the whole line held or broke. 

Corporal Fisher was young in years, but he 
stuck to his post of duty, and died in the fullness 
of honor. In time to come school-boys of our 
great Dominion will hear how Corporal Fisher 
won the Victoria Cross in his passing. His career, 
so short, and yet so bright, will remain one of 
Canada's' shining and everlasting possessions. 



HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE 

America is tiptoeing along the threshold of 
such new possessions. A galaxy of new names 
about to burst forth in the pages of American 
history. We must not, then, forget the glory 
which is woven with our sorrow. Our dead who 
have fallen in battle shall sleep well in an alien 
land, and we who still remain must not withliold 
from them the pride which is their due. 



xvm 



"VEES LA GLOIRE'* 



"fTHHE roads to Ypres are paths to glory and 
'■' the grave." These were the words of the 
major as the battery in the dead of night came 
aromid Suicide Corner, passing in column of 
route to occupy once more a bloody position 
in the dreaded salient. 

"To the grave, but not to glorj^" said the sober 
subaltern. "There's no such thing as glory in 
this war." 

The sober subaltern called it "Ichabod — the 
war in which the glory is departed." He was sad 
indeed, remembering tales of other days. "I 
was bom a himdred years too late," he sighed, 
as he thought of his vanished dreams. He was 
cradled in a garrison city by the sea, where the 
Me and di'um throbbed out their greeting to the 
dawn, and where a silver bugle sang its swan- 
song to the closing day. The martial melodies 
were in his blood. His boyhood days were 
passed beside the surges where the battle-fleets 

29S 



•*VERS LA GLOIRE" 

were moored, while from the frowning citidal 
above his town he saw his proud flag fly and 
watched the scarlet troops come down. 

But now the glamours of his boyhood days 
were flown, and naught but cold and mud and 
bitterness and death remained on that awful 
landscape fronting toward Hill 60. 

Distance lends enchantment to the view. This 
trite saying has many applications, but above all 
it applies to martial glory. 

I talked once with Trooper William McCor- 
mick, of the Eighth Royal Irish Hussars, who 
rode with the Six Hundred in the immortal 
Charge of the Light Brigade. He said nothing 
of martial glory, but he talked much of the bit- 
terness of the Crimea, of the lack of food, of the 
terrible cold, of the suffering of men and horses 
in open bivouac throughout that awful winter. 

I said, "Trooper, do you remember the morn- 
ing of the charge?" 

"I remember it as if it was yisterday," he 
answered. ** The 'orse-lines was murk and damp, 
and me mate and I was cursing as the mist came 
floating up the Balaklava Valley." He said 
nothing about the glory of the charge, but talked 
only of the hardships and the sorrows. The long 
Valley of Balaklava for Trooper McCormick was 
a nightmare of haunting gloom, a place of 

299 



THE REAL FRONT 

abysmal wretchediiess where he left most of his 
comrades forever. 

I had always thrilled to Temiyson's "Charge 
of the Light Brigade." But the background 
which Trooper McCorxuick gave to the poet's 
flashing picture turned all its gay and glittering 
hues into a somber gray. 

Recently I heard a friend comparing the 
British entry into Jerusalem with the glorv* of that 
other triumphal entry in the time of the Crusades. 
"Those were the days for fighting I" he ex- 
claimed. 

Our British troops in khaki filing through the 
gate at the Tower of David seem a poor spectacle 
indeed compared with the plumed knights of God- 
frey de Bouillon, with tossing spears and coats 
of shining mail. But I doubt if those brave 
knights, encumbered by their hundred pounds 
of iron, felt much more glorious than a prome- 
nading junk-shop by the time they reached the 
Heights of Zion. 

When I crossed the Atlantic in 1914 with a 
convoy of thirty transports, a deckmate was for- 
ever bemoaning the departure of glory from the 
sea. By day the mile-long columns marched 
across the ocean's gray. By night the blinking 
war-ships folded us upon the vast and hea\'ing 
waste. But my mate was repining for the "good 

300 



••VERS LA GLOIRE'' 

old da.ys'* of Nelson and of Drake. Their glory 
he could see in the enchantment of far distance. 
A vast and panoramic picture of modern glory on 
the sea was stretched before him, but he saw it 
not. He himself was a part of that grand New 
World armada, but he was too engaged in envy- 
ing the past to regard the vaster splendor of his 
present. 

When we were near to England the battle- 
cruiser Princess Royal, one of our convoying war- 
ships, steamed at full speed between our lines. 
She was stripped for action, with her great guns 
pointing upward. Sailors in dirty jeans thronged 
her decks, and up along the fighting-tops ap- 
peared the men in blue. Thirty thousand tons 
went by at thirty knots an hour, and as she 
passed with cheers and answering cheers we 
heard her band playing forth our national song, 
"O Canada!" Our melancholy mate in that 
short, thrilling moment caught his breath and 
cautiously admitted from the honor of the past, 
"That's some sight!" 

But when the Princess Royal had passed, "sky- 
hooting through the brine," the melancholy one 
deplored, "She hasn't got a look-in with the yards 
and spars of those tall ships they used to have in 
Nelson's day." 

Jf our melancholy mate could have descended 



THE REAL FRONT 

into the Victory's betweendecks, during battle, 
with its foul and loathsome quarters and with its 
awful filth and stench, the brightness of that dis- 
tant glory might not have shone so fair for him. 
We are all dazzled by alluring glory far away, 
while most of us are blind to splendors near at 
hand. 

In the Pantheon in Paris is a picture that once 
set my soul aflame. It is entitled "Vers la 
Gloire." The artist in blazing colors has set 
forth troopers of various cavalry regiments in 
headlong charge; Uhlans, Hungarian Hussars, 
Cossacks, Dragoons, Cuirassiers, and Lancers 
dashing upward and onward, through cloud and 
smoke of battle, to where high and over all stands 
the figure of La Gloire. 

The soul of the artist shines in that immortal 
canvas, with crimson and gold, with pomp and 
circumstance, with fire and tempest, with flashing 
swords and prancing hoofs. The picture is a 
perfect cloudburst of splendor, at once dazzling 
and overwhelming to the senses. 

Just back from the Balkan War, with aU of 
youth's exuberance and dreams of martial glory, 
I stood before that picture enraptured, and hailed 
it as the greatest painting that I had seen in 
Europe. 

Since then I have seen that picture, "Vers la 

302 



**VERS LA GLOIRE" 

Glolre," again — not in a narrow glimpse upon 
three panels in the Pantheon, but painted far 
across ten thousand leagues of sky. 

On the night of our advance at Cambrai I 
stood on the hills of Pittsburg and gazed upon the 
infinite and far-flung glory of that last advance. 
Before me, stretched out along the valley, were 
the flaming chimneys where the toilers forged 
the shells. There on the hills of Pittsburg that 
night I saw the beginning of those battle-lines 
that stretched forever on and on from reeking 
foundries and from roaring trains unto the in- 
satiable mouths of our uttermost blazing guns. 

To the gunners attending the blazing guns on 
the perilous outposts, 'mid darkness, rain and 
mud, there was naught of glory in the task. 
The grimy, sweaty artisans who toiled amid the 
sparks on the foundry floor saw only horrific 
flashes from the blast-furnace. "Glory," whis- 
pered in their ears, brought forth contemptuous 
outbursts. "G'arn! there ain't no glory here — 
it's just plain hell!" 

The fed-up one in a front-line trench would 
burst forth in like contemptuousness at mention 
of such a word. Amid the grime and smoke of 
Pittsburg the toilers by the tireless fires lose 
every vision of a place beyond, and the soldier, 
wet and shivering in his miserable trench, is 



THE REAL FRONT 

likewise engulfed in an impenetrable gloom. 
But, from the red of the Pittsburg sky to the 
flash of the Cambrai guns, for those with eyes to 
see, there stretches an infinite panorama of the 
glory of modern war. 

For many, in arsenals and trenches, this glory 
is obscured. But he who can stand off to gain 
perspective will catch glimpses of infinite gran- 
deur of our human struggle as this war unfolds 
before him. 

It is the popular thing to say that there is no 
glory in this war, or that the glory of the struggle 
is unseen. But for sheer splendor of spectacle a 
modern battle-field renders paltry and dim every 
field in the past about which artists and poets 
have painted and sung. 

Let those who talk about the English line at 
Waterloo withdraw and from a distance gaze 
upon that grim line of England and of France to- 
day. A line that stands, not for a tragic hour, 
or for a day; a line that stands while weeks roll 
into months, and months roll into years. If we 
admire the British calm in the squares at Quatre- 
Bras, a calm that lasted through those aw^ul 
hours, what shall we say of the British calm of 
those who stand in the long lines at Ypres, as 
imperturbable as the passing years .^ 

If one asks for the spectacular in his scenes of 

304 



''VERS LA GLOIRE" 

martial glory, let him turn away from the Thin 
Red Line, or from the Old Guard's white and 
blue; let him regard the vaster spectacle of 
modern war, traced against the widest reaches of 
the night, over earth and sky and sea. Let him 
watch the battle-fleets go dropping down along 
the foreland, with blinking lights that talk 
through leagues of gloom; or watch above the 
battle-fields where a thousand stars look down, 
and where another thousand stars leap up to 
meet them in the night. 

If the poet Byron waxed so eloquent when he 
sings of battle's magnificently stern array, what 
would he say could he but catch one sweeping 
glimpse of the star-shells rising on that half- 
thousand miles of battle-line from the Vosges 
Mountains to the sea? 

In spite of all its tragedy and all its sorrow, 
this war represents the full-blown flower of 
glory, alike in splendor of spectacle, and in 
its deeper splendors that are hidden in the 
hearts of men. 

In the days of chivalry about which we boast 
so much, glory was a monopoly reserved for 
knights and kings. In those brave days the 
shining splendor rode alone with the ^lite in 
pageantry of scarlet and gold. In this war glory 
walks on foot, not with kings and princes, but 

20 305 



THE REAL FRONT 

witli heroes of unknown name, in homespun, 
gray, and khaki; with laborers and navi-ies, 
with the poor and with the lowly. The glory 
of this war is the glory of the common man. 

In this war those that were high and mighty 
have come to the humblest tasks, and those that 
once were the greatest have become the servants 
of all. 

Riding down from the front line, one evening, 
on the Somnie, I encountered a column of march- 
ing troops. As they wore bandoliers, I recog- 
nized them as mounted men. 

"Who are you.^'' I called out. 

"The Royal Horse Guards — Blues," some one 
answered. 

""What have you been doing up front.'" I 
inquired. 

"Burv-ing the dead at Moltke Farm," replied 
the former speaker. 

The Household Cavalry, the right of the line 
in the British Army, acting as scavengers of the 
battle-field I "Alas," moans the defender of the 
pri^-ileged classes, "alas, how the glory has de- 
parted!" But the Horse Guards, serving at that 
menial work, are but an emblem of democracy 
for which we fight, where all alike must share the 
meanest task, and where all alike may aspire to 
the highest glory. 

306 



'*VERS LA GLOIRE" 

The spirit in which these high-born men work 
out their loathsome duties is one of the brightest 
features of this war. 

"I suppose you chaps are pretty well dis- 
gusted with your latest job," I said to the officer 
who marched at the head of the Blues. 

"Not at all, old chap," he said. "We're bally 
well glad to have our part to do, whatever it may 
be." That high-born officer of the Blues, meet- 
ing his menial task in that brave and uncom- 
plaining spirit, was adding to the luster of his 
regiment. 

Valor and glory shine brightest when we behold 
them in sacrifices such as that of Gen. John 
Gough, V.C., who went from his place of safety 
far down the line to take comforts to his old 
troops, and was killed while on his mission 
of mercy. If where a high officer sacrifices him- 
self for his men is glorious, what shall we say 
of the deed of a British officer who offered him- 
self to save his foe.f^ 

During an attempted daylight raid on the part 
of the Germans they were held up by a withering 
machine-gun fire and retired with great loss to 
their own trenches. One poor Hun, who was 
terribly wounded, was impaled upon his own 
wire, and he hung there writhing in agony 
before the eyes of both armies. Finally the sight 

307 



THE REAL FRONT 

of his suffering and his cries for help were too 
much for an English officer in the trenches op- 
posite. Vaulting over the parapet, he walked 
boldly across No Man's Land in the direct face 
of the foe, and, lifting his wounded enemy from 
the impaling wire, he carried him across the 
Hun parapet and down into his own trenches. 
When he arrived there, a German officer took 
an iron cross which he wore off his ovm. breast, 
and placed it on the breast of the brave British 
officer. The firing on both sides ceased while 
he returned to his own trenches. And looking 
on, both friend and foe alike knew that they had 
beheld the highest form of martial glory. 

Those who imagine that this war is all baseness 
are mistaken, for humanity is still greater than 
enmity, and often sacrifice is greater than vic- 
tory. 

A lady visiting in a Dublin hospital was talking 
wath a wounded soldier on religion. The soldier 
drew from under his pillow a little English 
Testament. 

"This was given to me," he said, '*by my 
enemy. We met in No Man's Land and one of 
us had to go. I killed him. While he was dymg 
I bent over and gave him to drink from my 
water-bottle. He could speak Enghsh and he 
drew this Testament from his tunic, and with his 

308 



**VERS LA GLOIRE" 

dying breath said: 'This book has been the 
water of Hfe to me. I give it to you.'" 

Like a lone star from the Hun's night of bar- 
barism shines out the dying example of this 
Christian soldier of our foe. In the days of 
peace that are to come, when Germany has for- 
gotten the nightmare of the clanking saber and 
the shining armor of the war-lord, when all the 
baser glories are departed, the glory of that 
Christian soldier will remain. 

My picture, *'Vers la Gloire," to-day begins 
low down in the wallowing mud and mire of 
Flanders, but it soars beyond the stars. "You 
have lost all," sneers the Kaiser to the noble 
King of Belgium. "Nay," replies Albert, "I 
have not lost my soul." Possessing her soul in 
the shards and the ashes, Belgium has reached the 
zenith of her glory. For mortal eyes, that brave 
and living wall before the shattered town of 
Ypres have gained for all their epic struggles 
naught but a mass of stone and ruin. But for 
those with eyes to see, they have laid foundation 
for a fairer city on this earth whose glory will be 
brotherhood. 



THE END 



OUiiClll L/dlD. 



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